


Pursuit

by Daisy_Chain



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis being an arse, Athos is too old for this crap, Everyone in trouble, Gen, Musketeer Family, Porthos being a BAMF, boys on tour, d'Artangan being d'Artangan, quite a lot of running
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 19:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Chain/pseuds/Daisy_Chain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission gone sour. A pursuit through the trees. Hounded by would be assasins will the Musketeers make it back to Paris in one piece, or will complete exhaustion itself be the death of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go once again. I started writing this what feels like forever ago and as of yet I haven't finished it, although I am motoring towards the end. I'm also going home soon to visit family so I'll be able to work on it fully there without many distractions (apart from two over eager terriers).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!  
> As always, all comments and critiques are warmly welcomed.

“Come on now gentleman, let's keep up the pace. We can be at the Baron's keep by this afternoon at the latest and hopefully be home for it all the sooner.”

Athos turned in his seat at the head of their procession trotting along the road to add weight to his order. Though his words were light there was a heaviness sitting on all of their shoulders for theirs was not a simple mission. Treville had sent them on a thankless task with a grim edge in his tone.

“ _The Baron d'Avery is wanted for sowing dissent against the crown,” Treville began to the grouped collection of Musketeers lined in the main Garrison yard for muster. “He has been openly campaigning against his Majesty for months, attempting to grow the small number of men who agree with his way of thinking and who are now under his charge. Like I say it is a small number but the King cannot risk this number growing and d'Avery's calls have started to get louder.”_

“ _What are his grievances?” Athos called to the Captain who stood on the upper deck outside his office as he spoke to his men._

“ _Several men working on the Baron's land have come to the attention of the court bringing stories of his cruelty. He has raised their taxes to a level which they cannot pay and any who fall behind find their property's raised to the ground and their possessions taken.” Treville paused at the angry mutterings which broke out amongst the gathered men, almost feeling the fire flashing in d'Artangan's eyes as the memories of his own farm's destruction washed over him._

“ _The Baron has been a thorn in the King's side for many years and this act was the final straw. He called for the Baron's lands and titles to be taken by the crown and for the Baron to be exiled from France. Needless to say d'Avery did not take the pronouncement well. He refused to vacate his land and barricaded himself into his manner house. Naturally Louis didn't take this very well either and called for the Baron's immediate imprisonment.”_

“ _I take it he didn't come out and quietly allow himself to be taken to the Chatelet?” Aramis piped up from beside Athos._

“ _No, instead he killed several of the Red Guard sent to arrest him and wounded several more before beginning this ill fated attempt at a revolution. Only the Queen's steadying hand has prevented Louis from sending an entire battalion of men raining down upon d'Avery's head. She has a soft spot for him as he was a familiar face at court in her early years as Queen of France. The plan instead is this. We send a group of the Musketeers in where the Red Guard have failed..”_

_At the word 'failed' several jeers broke out amongst the men resulting in Treville raising his hand for silence once more._

“ _As I was saying, where they failed.”_

“ _Surely he is not set to come any quieter at our word as opposed to that of the Red Guard,” Athos said, a frown marring his features._ “ _Perhaps not but there is a chance that now blood has been shed the Baron will see how hopeless his situation is, especially since the execution order he immediately imposed on himself by killing the guard has been waived in place of a lifetime's imprisonment...again at the urgings of the Queen,” Treville replied. The frustration barely held back from his words. “So I shall be sending a group of six of you to offer the Baron this last chance at seeing reason and saving his neck.”_

_As he said this his eyes settled on those of Athos, who nodded imperceptibly._

“ _Athos, my office,” Treville barked before appointing tasks for the rest of the men and turning back into his rooms._

_Athos turned to the other three, motioning with his head to the stairs leading to the upper deck of the Garrison. It was by unspoken agreement that the four would make up the main body of the group being sent on this potentially perilous task._

“ _Athos,” Treville started, not even looking surprised to see the other three men fanning out by his side as he stood in front of his Captain's desk._

“ _There's more to this mission than what you have stated isn't there?” Aramis said, cocking an eyebrow as he looked between Athos and Treville's stony faces._

“ _Unfortunately yes, for once the Cardinal and I have seen eye to eye on a matter. The Baron cannot be seen to be able to openly disobey the crown and incite revolution and get away without punishment. It is unlikely he will leave his defences quietly, such as they are and also unlikely that the Queen's mercy will be accepted kindly.”_

“ _So we are to be a scouting party then?” Athos said, his tone even._

“ _Yes,” Treville began, nodding to himself, “I want the four of you, and two others, to gain entry to his household and take note of everything he has inside. Men, weapons, hell if he has a dog that looks like it might bite I want to know about it.”_

“ _Not that I don't mind 'aving the company but why not just send the four of us?” Porthos asked, his brow creased. “It would be a 'ell of a lot quicker.”_

“ _We can't pretend that the Baron isn't a dangerous man, pompous and posturing as tales would have us believe aside,” Treville started, “he sent several Red Guard to an early grave and I want you to have as much chance to put up a fight as you may but without sending so many men that he instantly primes his muskets at your sight.”_

“ _Who are you considering?” Athos asked, head slightly cocked. He clearly was swaying to the wisdom of Porthos' words but not wishing to undermine his Captain in any way._

“ _I was considering Tristan and Gerard.”_

“ _But Tristan is just a boy!” Aramis bit out in spite of himself. Athos held up a hand to quell his movement as Aramis stepped forwards at his words. Athos had seen the Spaniard spending many hours teaching their greenest recruit how to reload a pistol shaving seconds off his time. Precious seconds which could mean the difference between life and death._

“ _What he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm and an, albeit rough, set of impressive skills,” Treville began in a tone which warned off any more outbursts. “He has to be introduced to the field at some point or another and it is high time we knocked some of that shine off his pauldron.”_

“ _He has more experience than I did that first time..” d'Artangan added quietly, eyeing Aramis who radiated tension until his words sank in. The Spaniard lowered his gaze from where it had been burning straight into Treville's and nodded once._

“ _Gerard as you know is well seasoned and has a head as steady as his hand to boot,” Treville continued, now that the tension had diffused somewhat._

“ _When do we make tracks?” Porthos asked, shifting his feet as he prevented himself from moving to Aramis' side in a silent show of support. The marksman would not appreciate such a display in front of his Captain._

“ _You will have the morning to make ready. d'Artangan I would like you to find Tristan and Gerard so that I may inform them of the truer nature of this mission. Pack enough provision for several days. It is only a day's ride to d'Avery's keep but you may find it difficult to gain entry so better to be prepared for three at the least. It goes without saying that I want you to be careful. Dismissed.”_

Athos thought back to the note of uncertainty which had crept into Treville's voice at that last warning and also warmly at the notion that he had asked the four of them into the office separately to Tristan and Gerard to inform them about the mission. He knew that Treville valued their opinions and would have been watching their reactions to the news of the two others joining them like a hawk despite already having come to the conclusion that six men would be better than four.

They were both good men from what he knew of them. Athos was not one for mingling outside of the Garrison so he barely had spoken a word to either man. But he found them agreeable enough to work with and had a certain respect for the scarred, veteran Gerard. Who had proven himself on the field of battle time and time again.

Tristan was green, but then as d'Artangan had pointed out, they didn't come much greener than he had been before his headlong dive into his first mission. Fresh from the fields into combat, and he had turned into a fine Musketeer. Still prone to leading with his heart but experience would temper that. Plus with the five men surrounding him, Tristan had the best chance of a good start to his career. Especially with the way Aramis kept glancing at the boy, worry furrowing his brow. Athos made a mental note to gently chastise the marksman if his attention wavered from their objective.

There had been easy chatter bouncing back and forth amongst their small company over the long hours. The sunlight had begun fading a little time ago but the bantering had not, Tristan eager to join in with anything the others had to say in a telling effort to try to merge into the experienced group, but the words stopped dead at the looming figure of an approaching rider in the distance.

Athos held up a hand from the front of the procession, halting their progress as they awaited the rider's arrival and noting the subtle movement from Aramis at the corner of his eye as he shifted his pistol under his riding cloak, keeping it out of sight.

“Hold, in the name of the King,” Athos called across to the man as he reached to within easy talking distance. He did so, his mount prancing below him, steaming and frothing from the mouth, emphasising his haste in reaching them. He made no move to touch the impressive array of weapons adorning his belts, but the sneer ripping across his face spoke of his ill intent towards them.

“Who are you and why are you trespassing on the Baron's lands?” he spat out, contempt in his every words.

“I am Athos of the King's Musketeers, these are my men,” Athos began, motioning with his head to the others. “As I understand it these lands no longer belong to d'Avery, but to the crown so it would be impossible for any one of us to be accused of trespassing.”

At these words the man's snarl grew, if possible, even uglier.

“The _Baron_ d'Avery owns this land and much more besides and he has made it clear he wants no man loyal to the crown to step upon it,” he growled, clearly angry at Athos' lack of respect for his leader.

“Well, I mean, technically we haven't,” Aramis said cheekily, taking his foot out of the stirrup and waving it about in the air. Athos only managed to contain an eye roll through sheer force of will.

Predictably the messenger did not find Aramis as funny as he could have either.

“Turn yourselves around and depart or there will be consequences,” he grated out, fingers twitching near his pistols.

“Now, now Monsieur, let's keep this friendly shall we?” Gone was the reckless joviality from Aramis' voice, replaced by the chilling ruthlessness Athos was familiar with, but which still made his hackles raise somewhat even after all these years.

At his word, Aramis levelled his concealed pistol, finally revealing that it had been trained on the messenger the entire time they had been talking to him. The steel in the man's eyes glinted and he bared his teeth with a growl. Athos had to commend his bravery, or stupidity, faced with such odds and in the sights of a gun. His hands moved back from his own weapons slowly though, clearly showing he had received the message loud and clear.

“You have an hour to remove yourselves, or you will feel the bite of the Baron's army,” he said coldly. Finally, it seemed, able to reign in his anger at their presence.

“Listen mate, 'ow about we start this again hmm?” Porthos' voice cut across from Athos' other side. The man said nothing but cocked his head slightly, eyeing up the new potential threat. “The King sent us 'ere to speak to d'Avery, excuse me, the Baron, and see if we can't put this nastiness behind us.”

Porthos' tone was honey to Aramis' steel and despite himself, the man reacted to it. The tension present in his shoulders easing slightly as he shifted in his saddle.

“The Baron wishes to see no one connected to the crown,” he began, though a new uncertainty crept into his voice.

“Sure 'e don't but if you explain to 'im that the King 'as sent fresh terms for 'im to think about, surely it's worth the 'assle of a trip back to the 'ouse.” Athos sat stock still in his saddle, not wanting to break the spell that Porthos' words had over the man who narrowed his eyes before heaving out a puff of breath.

“I shall...speak to his Lordship and see if he will allow and audience with you...” he started slowly. “But you will wait here until I come back to collect you and if any of you even thinks about trying to lay a hand on the Baron I will personally skin you alive.”

With that he turned and kicked at his horse with a “Yah!” and sent it flying back up the pathway leading directly back to d'Avery's mansion.

“Friendly chap wasn't he?” Aramis said, looking around at his comrades.

“That was well done Porthos, Athos said, wheeling his mount around so that he could address them and steadfastly ignoring the grin on his idiotic brother's face. “We will wait and hope that d'Avery is feeling in a pleasant mood but be on your guard. And Aramis, should we by some miracle manage to find ourselves in his presence, you don't get to speak.”

“Wha..?” Aramis' started with mock distress.

“No,” Athos said, cutting whatever the marksman was going to say short with one of his 'if you continue talking I will hurt you' glares. It worked. For once.

“So assuming we actually get through the doors, what is the plan?” d'Artangan asked, a grin on his face at his brother's antics.

“Be on your guard at all times. Tristan, Gerard, I want the two of you to make note of whatever weaponry they are hoarding. d'Artangan, you and I shall keep track of the men under his command. Aramis and Porthos, I want you to act as rear guard. If any of them so much as touches a pommel, you make them see their mistake.”

“Assuming he does actually let us through the doors,” Aramis muttered mutinously though humour glinted in his eyes.

“I'm thinking that's an actual possibility,” Porthos replied, motioning with his head back towards the road. They all turned in time to see a large cloud of dust kicked into the air by the hooves of several horses. It seemed the disgraced Baron had sent a larger force to deal with the Musketeers this time.

Athos tensed in his saddle as he brought his own horse back around to the front of their band of men. He rested his hand causally onto his sword hilt in, what would seem to anyone who didn't know him, a lazy gesture.

There were seven men aside from the earlier messenger, who pulled up short allowing him to move forward and make first contact once again.

“The Baron has decided he is interested in what you have to say,” he said, contempt still rife in his tone. “You will follow us to the house. Any of you so much as breathe in a way which I don't like and it will mean your end.”

Without waiting for their answer, he turned to his own men and waved them forward. They instantly surrounded the Musketeers in an obviously pre planned formation, making sure their slightly superior numbers crowded the men as they moved forward en masse back up the disturbed road and towards d'Avery's home.


	2. Chapter 2

The pace was purposefully slow and Athos dared to take a subtle glance at their guard detail. Each man wore a tense expression and more weapons than seemed strictly necessary. Something which worried him. Agitated men and pointy objects did not bode well for level headed conversation. He shot a warning look at Aramis but noted that the Spaniard's face was focused and alert, despite the appearance of lounging in his saddle. 

They turned a corner through a thicket of trees and finally came to the front of an impressive, if modest, sized mansion. More angry men stood guard at the entrance to the small courtyard, eyeing the Musketeers with fire in their gazes as they clattered their way over to the stables. The men surrounding them dismounted, handing their reins to the two stable boys who rushed out to meet them, their eyes lowered. Athos noted the bruises on their arms with a spike of fury. It seemed the reports of the Baron's cruelty might not have been wholly fabricated. 

They dismounted their own horses, waiting until the boys returned to take their steeds. 

“I would appreciate it if you left them fully tacked,” Athos said quietly as the boy came to take his reins. He startled at the words, clearly not used to being addressed, and nodded, turning on his heel and leading the horse into the stable. The last thing they would need to worry about was saddling up the horses should their chat go south.

“Durant, the Baron said to offer to release our new friends of their burdens before they are brought to him,” one of the men called to the messenger. Durant smiled evilly in response as he turned to the men surrounding him and the Musketeers.

“You heard the Baron boys, lets relieve some burdens shall we?” 

At his words the men closed in on the Musketeers, who tensed at the movement. Athos raised a hand to steady them, stopping them from initiating a fray. The animalistic snarl that ripped from Porthos made even the hair on his arms stand as the man tensed but held true to Athos' silent command. 

Durant stepped into Athos' space, looking him squarely in the eye as he shucked Athos' sword from his scabbard and passed it to one of the men beside him. He grinned smugly as he worked to unhook the pistol hanging at his belt.

“Must be tiring carrying all this all the time?” he said as he passed the pistol back as well, “anything else you'd like us to take off your hands or should we just search you ourselves?” 

Athos stared back, the cold fury threatening to overwhelm him tempered by force of will as he pulled his main gauche from his back and handed it to Durant. He turned his head, breaking his gaze with him as it settled on Aramis who had grasped the arm of the man who had reached out to take his pistols, anger pulsing from his frame.

“Aramis.” One word from Athos had the Spaniard releasing his grasp, though hate poured from his eyes as his guns were taken. 

Athos did not have to restrain Porthos, verbally or in any other way, as his weapons were lifted. Though he removed them from his own person, not allowing any of the men to lay a hand upon him in any way. Anger rolled from his body in waves to match Aramis'. Neither man took well to having their means of defence stripped from them. 

d'Artangan looked ready to pounce as Durant turned and removed his own sword from his belt, but he too managed to rein in his anger long enough for his weapons to be taken. The action not going unnoticed by Athos, who felt a strange burn of pride as he realised how differently the youth would have reacted not so many months before. 

The last of their company stood quietly as they were also relieved of the burden of their equipment. Tristan stared at the ground, refusing or too scared to make eye contact with the considerably more burly men before him. Gerard holding strong and steady, no hint of what he was truly feeling bubbling beneath the surface of a completely cool exterior. Athos found himself thanking Treville's good judgement of character once again. 

“Well now that pleasant business is over, perhaps we could head inside and meet his Lordship?” Durant almost sang at them, gloating as he eyed the now weapon-less Musketeers.

Athos said nothing but nodded slowly at Durant, moving to walk behind him and trusting his comrades to fall in step. They were once again surrounded by Durant's men as they headed towards the grand entrance leading to the house from the yard, the doorway large enough for the procession to move inside without much difficulty. 

Walking into the hallways was like entering a smaller version of a room in the palace. d'Avery's influences in style were obvious, despite his verbal stance of opposing the King. Durant made his way across the hall, stopping at a set of closed double doors flanked either side by more heavily armed men. He nodded to them and they stepped aside easily, opening the doors as they went. They led onto another room which would have easily fit inside the walls of the palace. A large table ran the length of the modest expanse, empty save for the form of what was obviously d'Avery, who naturally sat at the head. He was decked out lavishly in the style of one above his station, and from what Athos could see, had not deigned to wear any weaponry on his person. Instead it seemed, he would rather bestow an entire armoury on those who were beside him at all times.

“Ah Durant, I trust you have treated our guests well thus far?” he asked. Though his tones were honeyed, there was an obvious strain to his voice which Athos guessed was barely concealed anger. In spite of inviting them to an audience, it was obvious d'Avery did not want them within his home.

“I am Athos of the King's Musketeers,” Athos began, stepping forward to offer a polite bow. An arm shot out and caught him, none too gently, across the chest and he practically felt the twin beams of fire from Durant's gaze. 

“You will speak when you are spoken to, Musketeer,” he sneered, adding pressure to his forearm and forcing Athos back a step.

“Now, now Durant, that is not strictly necessary,” d'Avery sang, though his mouth twitched in an evil smile for a moment. Athos stepped back accordingly, not breaking eye contact with Durant once. “Proceed,” d'Avery added with a casually bored flick of his hand. 

“I am here to offer greetings from their majesties along with a message,” Athos began, consciously trying to keep all the men's attentions on himself by raising his voice somewhat. He wanted the others to be able to scout the room with as little notice from anyone else as possible.

“Ah do you now?” d'Avery said, his composure slipping fractionally and more anger dripping into his words. “Well I must say you're starting with a slightly politer tone than the last group of the King's messengers. They weren't very nice at all were they men?” he added, his tone taking a more dangerous edge. “We had to dispose of them unfortunately.”

“As I was saying, we also bring with us a message,” Athos continued, refusing to be goaded into conversation at the mention of the killed and wounded Red Guard. 

“Forgive me another interruption Monsieur, but could I possibly enquire as to your circumstance for a moment? How does one of noble birth find himself in the company of such riff raff? A soldier's life is not one for one such as you.” 

Athos was completely thrown for a moment as d'Avery's words washed over him.

“I have no idea what you're implying,” he managed after regaining his composure, annoyed it had fallen in the first place.

“Oh come now, anyone here can see you're of the nobility. Tell me all about it, it should be an enlightening tale I should think,” d'Avery said, the smile making another return as he realised what affect his words were having on the man in front of him. 

“I'd imagine attempted rebellion is not high on the list of 'one of noble birth' either but you're making a reasonable attempt at it.” 

Athos winced at Aramis' words, wanting nothing more than to turn around and shoot him a warning look but not willing the movement to incite any form of retribution from d'Avery's men. A muffled thump from behind and a rush of air from the marksman told Athos that he had been duly punished by one of their guards. He held a hand into the air again at the answering growl from Porthos. It would do them no good to start a fray in the middle of this wolves' den. 

d'Avry said nothing for a moment, but the smile on his face strained tight as he slowly eyed up Aramis. 

“Be careful with your words now, we're all friends here,” he said, his voice taking on an equal tightness. 

“The message, d'Avery?” Athos asked, his tone clipped.

“Baron d'Avery,” hissed Durant, ignored by almost everyone.

“Very well, proceed,” d'Avery said, flicking his hand once again.

“The King wills your immediate return to Paris, whereby you will be interred indefinitely into the walls of the Chatelet as per the Queen's wishes in lieu of the noose of the hangman's rope, as per the King's,” Athos said evenly, the words ringing out across the empty room.

“Ah, I see,” d'Avery began. His eyes narrowing. “Then I feel we may have a bit of a problem. You see, I don't really care what either of their majesties wish.” 

“I have also been asked to inform you that should you refuse this last offer of mercy, the King will send a force of men to break down the walls of this house, and forcibly put you back into said noose.” 

After a pregnant pause in which d'Avery silently fumed, there seemed to be a moment where he shook himself internally. The greasy smile breaking out across his face once more. 

“So it is to be the noose his Highness would threaten me with?” he began. His words dangerously edged. 

“Why, would you prefer something sharper?” Aramis again. Accompanied by another dull thud and this time, a groan. 

“My patience is beginning to grow a little thinner,” d'Avery bit out ignoring the marksman completely but steadying a glare at Athos. “You would do well to control your men.” 

“My men will be nothing but respectful as they escort you back to Paris, I assure you,” Athos replied, wanting nothing more than to beat the smarmy look from the former Baron's face...and to throw a punch Aramis' way for good measure. He made a mental note to do so the first non-life threatening moment that appeared. 

“I'm sure they will be the same barely trained rabble as always as they make their way back to Paris,” d'Avery began. “Unfortunately, however, they will be doing so without the pleasure of my company. 

At his word, Durant barked out a gruff laugh, turning his head slightly and apparently signalling his men. They closed in a step, circling the Musketeers a little too closely for comfort. 

“Now now, my friends,” d'Avery said, holding up a lazy hand once more, “we do not need to send his Highness another message do we?” Though he seemingly addressed his own men, his gaze did not so much as flicker from Athos', posing the question more to him than anyone else in the room. “After all, I'm sure he got the idea the first time round when he sent his Red Guard to bark at my door.” 

“We have no need for violence,” Athos said, tightly, “our mission was merely to deliver a message. I can see that message has been disregarded. We shall leave you to your ministrations and return at the King's pleasure. Good day to you d'Avery.”

He inclined his head in mock respect before turning on his heel with a thought to march back through his men and out of the room, knowing d'Avery would not take the sleight calmly but failing to give a damn any longer. They had done what they had come for and he did not want to spend one moment longer in the insufferable man's presence. 

d'Avery it seemed, had other ideas. 

“It is more than a little rude to take your leave of one above your station before it is permitted,” he called out, the anger he had been repressing throughout their conversation now fully out in the open. 

At his words, the closing circle of men curled tighter, cutting off any means of bolting through their lines though not one of the Musketeers thought to do so. As one, d'Avery's men moved to take their pistols from their belts.

“Now!”

At Athos' command, his tightly wound Musketeers sprang forward into the surprised faces of the men. Knowing that the parle could have turned sour at any point, and with their own weapons stripped from them, Athos had realised their only chance was a blitz attack before the others managed to level their guns and he took his moment. 

Porthos launched himself into the fray like a charging bull, knocking two of the men's heads together and sending them to the ground unconscious. Athos lost sight of Aramis almost immediately as he threw himself into his own battle, knocking Durant's raised arm aside easily before heaving his entire body weight behind a punch which also knocked his quarry down. From the corner of his eye he saw d'Artangan wrestling with his own burly opponent and made to step to his aid when the deafening report of a pistol stopped him and every one else in their tracks as it echoed around the room. 

Whirling around, he saw with horror, the dribble of blood pooling from Gerard's mouth as he scrabbled uselessly at the hole which had appeared through his chest. He choked once, drowning in his own fluids, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slowly crumpled to the floor revealing the sneering face of one of d'Avery's men stood mere feet behind him. Pistol smoking.

The room erupted. 

Each of the Musketeers felt the loss of their comrade bitterly. But it leant a fierce power to their blows as they all threw themselves bodily into the now heaving mass of d'Avery's guard, who attempted to subdue them unsuccessfully. Though they had the advantage of number, they lacked the rigorous training regime and the iron discipline of a soldier's life. 

Through the whirling limbs Athos caught glimpses of his men, all fire and blood and vengeance. 

But for all their ability, they were still five unarmed men in the midst of numbers which seemed undiminished, though many of their foe lay on the ground, groaning or unconscious. He knew they would not win this fight if they did not manage to get out of the close quarters into open air. 

“To me!” he yelled above the din, slowly making his way towards the doorway to the room which seemed suddenly to be a million miles away. He grunted as an errant pistol butt caught him in the temple, sending his senses wheeling and hot blood streaming down his face. He shook his head, aiming a vicious punch at the brute who'd landed the lucky blow, sneering a smile as his fist connected solidly. 

Suddenly he seemed to come across a brief moment in time where he was opponent-less, and he took the opportunity to dash forward to where one of the unconscious men had dropped his sword near where he lay. Athos whipped it up, the point hovering a mere inch from the throat of Durant, who had managed to find his feet and froze mid strike, hate pouring from him as he stared at Athos over the sword tip. 

“Enough!” Athos hollered, channelling Treville's ability to have his voice heard above almost any din.

The fray stilled as the men realised their de-facto leader was at the mercy of the bleeding Musketeer.

Athos took the moment to take stock of his own men, who stood in various places around the room, chests heaving. None of them unmarked. It did not surprise him to see Aramis, bleeding from the corner of his mouth and with eyes glinting with the fierceness of battle, clutching a couple of spent pistols which he had evidently been using to bludgeon his enemies.

Likewise of Porthos, who had ripped a leg off of one of d'Avery's ridiculously ornate chairs to use as a rather effective club. Both men had the uncanny ability to turn any found item into a fiercely efficient weapon. 

He cast an eye over their two youngest members who seemed battered but none the worse for wear. 

“We are leaving. You have already murdered a Musketeer on top of your other charges. Do not make this more worse for yourselves than you already have.” The commanding tone ripped through the room and seemed to ring true for a couple of d'Avery's men, who looked from one another to the ruined body of Gerard, lying in a puddle of his own blood.

He flicked his head, motioning for the door to his own men, who moved slowly, disentangling themselves from their foes and stopping to bend and take whatever weapons they could from the fallen. 

He waited until they had cleared the room before taking a step back himself, maintaining a dangerous eye contact and daring any of the brutes to follow them into the hallways and back out to the yard.

The second he was through the door, he turned, sprinting to catch up with his brothers who had hustled toward the stables. 

The young boy Athos had managed a swift word with earlier was stood with two others, the three of them holding the reins of the Musketeer horses, still fully tacked as per his wishes. He nodded his thanks before mounting, noting with a tugging sadness Gerard's beast, noticeably minus his rider. 

“We shall return,” he said, leaning down to the boy to lay a hand on his head before kicking his horse into a canter, the other four streaming behind him.

“Musketeer!” 

Athos whirled as far in his saddle as he was able, a cold dread blooming in his chest at the danger thrumming in that one shout. As he bounced in his saddle he caught sight of Durant, raising what looked to be a pistol and which was confirmed moments later as a shot echoed in the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thank you for such a great response to the first chapter.
> 
> As always, all comments and critiques are gratefully received :D


	3. Chapter 3

A cry of pain had him whirling once again, the cold dread deepening as Tristan curled into himself still managing to cling onto the reins, though barely from the way he swayed in his seat.

“Aramis NO!” he yelled across to their marksman, who looked to be turning his mount in order to deal with Durant face to face. Even Athos flinched at the snarl which ripped from Aramis at the order, though he turned his horse back onto their same road, edging closer to Tristan who had his eyes closed fully in pain and was not able to steer his own. Aramis lay a hand over Tristan's, pushing it lower to hold onto the front of his saddle instead and letting the reins hang loose, trusting the horse to follow the others now it was no longer being steered.

They tore across the grounds, leaving the road almost immediately and making for the edge of the tree line which signalled the forest surrounding d'Avery's lands, attempting instinctively to hide their direction from the men who no doubt were in the throes of tacking up their own horses for pursuit. Athos knew they had to get as much distance between themselves and the hunters whilst they still had chance.

“Athos we're going to have to stop, he's losing too much blood,” Aramis' cry rang across from their line of thundering hooves.

“We cannot,” Athos replied grimly, knowing Aramis' very nature would rebel against this order and for the first time in a long time making him wonder if his word alone would be enough to stop the marksman going rogue.

“Athos!” Aramis replied aghast, an arm out attempting to steady Tristan, who had begun to lean dangerously in his saddle.

“If we stop now they will cut us all down,” Athos replied steadily. Hating himself for potentially dooming their newest recruit in favour of saving the lives of all of his men.

“I can tend to him mounted at the very least,” Aramis said cooly, impressively holding back his obvious want to rant and rail at Athos' words though his own were tight and stilted.

“We can hold them off for a few moments,” d'Artangan said from Athos' other side, low enough for the others not to hear in an attempt to not undermine Athos' command.

“Work quickly,” Athos bit out, pulling his horse to a heaving standstill and turning him around to face the path they had taken to scout for any pursuers. Porthos and d'Artangan followed suit, instinctively fanning out in order to glean a better advantage point.

Tristan's horse moved a few paces forward but pulled up to a standstill following the cues of his stable mates, though he pranced a little. Nervous at having a free rein. Aramis brought his own mount closer, talking easily to the animal and attempting to repress the emotions and tensions running through his own body in order not to spook him.Taking the reins, he wrapped them along with his own around the pommel of his saddle before unwrapping the blue sash he wore around his waist.

Leaning forward, he pushed Tristan back in order to ascertain his injury. The bullet had torn through Tristan's back, low on his left side, and had exited the front leaving a gaping and jagged hole. Blood poured from both wounds leaving his face pale and sweaty. He was barely aware of Aramis awkwardly tying the sash about his person, padding both sides of the bullet's path with ripped linens from the stash he kept handy in his saddle bags. He did, however, tense with a puff of expelled air and a low, boyish moan as Aramis bound the sash tightly with as much pressure as he could muster. All the while murmuring nothing words of comfort to the obviously scared young man.

“Aramis, we are running out of time,” Athos called back to the marksman, noting a dust cloud rising in the distance, speaking of a number of horses travelling at speed.

“I have done all I can for now,” Aramis replied, his voice tense as he unwrapped the tangled reins and placed Tristan's back into his fumbling fingers.

The Musketeers all turned, kicking their horses back into a canter, knowing that at a full gallop their mounts would tire too quickly to continue their escape but wanting to urge them onwards all the same. Athos hated the feeling of being hunted down like an animal but also knew that in this instance they had no chance of standing their ground. Especially with one of their own carrying such a mortal wound.

“What I wouldn't give to be able to wring their sodding necks,” Porthos growled from beside Athos, his words barely heard over the thundering hooves. His tone coupled with the bruise blossoming over his eye made for a threatening picture few would dare to oppose.

“You and me both my friend but this time we must run.”

Run they did. But after a couple of hours of crashing through the undergrowth, the fading sunlight forced their breakneck speed to be diminished to a trot through the closing trees for fear of their horses miss stepping in the darkness. Athos held his hand up to pull them all to a halt after a particularly bad stumble by d'Artangan's horse almost caused the man to be thrown from his saddle.

“We're going to have to continue on foot,” he began gravely, noting the heaving chests of their beasts and the way the sweat coating their bodies shone out in the moonlight.

“We can never outrun them on foot,” d'Artangan said quietly, slowly stroking his mount's neck in an effort to calm the exhausted animal.

Looking around in the darkness, Athos noted the bedraggled state of the troupe of men. Taking a course through the woods had meant none had passed unscathed through branches whipping at their hands and faces, the thin cuts and dried blood on each man's exposed skin was testament to that. Bruises from the battle had finally taken hold and stood out starkly even in the moonlight. The blood which had dribbled from his temple was itchy and flaky and he sympathised with Aramis, whose split lip had coated his chin in a macabre way, matching the wet darkness sticking to d'Artangan's cheek from a cut to his face. They were all of them exhausted. A long day's ride coupled with a laboured fight and then pursuit through the trees had pushed their bodies to the limit. The adrenaline had long since gone from their systems, leaving behind a trail of strained and tired muscles.

None of their appearances could compare with that of Tristan though, who was barely conscious and leaning forward, head almost pressed to his horse's neck. His face was pale with the obvious signs of blood loss and his eyes were lidded. His body ready to give out at any moment and only a soldier's stubbornness keeping him vaguely alert.

“The horses cannot continue in the dark but we must keep moving if we are to have any chance of outpacing d'Avery's dogs,” Athos said firmly, knowing full well what he was asking of his men. Paris was a day's ride away via the broken roads, but on foot through the trees it could easily stretch to three, if not more. His hope was that they would chance upon someone willing to transport them back to the capitol on the way. He was not foolish enough to think they would manage the journey easily in the state they were currently in. His throbbing head pulsed particularly vehemently at that moment as if reminding him of that.

“Their 'orses won't be doing any better in the dark,” Porthos said, his vote of confidence boosting Athos and chased his own misgivings away somewhat.

“But what of Tristan?” Aramis. Barely whispered in order to try to spare Tristan's pride, but he needn't have bothered. Tristan was many miles away from any conversation they were having around him at that point.

“We're going to have to try to carry him between us,” Athos said tersely. He knew he was asking them to put themselves at the limits of their endurance. They knew his words to be true. They could get no further on the horses and they could not afford to spend an evening allowing them to rest and waiting on the sun without severely putting themselves at risk of being overcome by d'Avery's men. He saw the resignation crossing each of their faces. But he also saw the grim determination. They were soldiers, their lives were not meant to be easy. And the hardships they had faced allowed them to grow stronger for the next insurmountable task. That they had to carry a wounded brother along for the ride only strengthened their resolve though his addition would no doubt be only an added strain. Leaving him behind was beyond out of the question.

“Strip the horses of everything you can carry without over burdening yourselves,” Aramis barked out to the others. He had the most experience of any of them and the others nodded at his order, not even thinking to question his command. “We will remove their tack and send them onwards. They will find their way home if they can.”

The Garrison horses were picked to be hardy creatures but also for the spark of intelligence which was present in some animal's eyes. If it was possible for any beast to be able to make it back to their stables safely it was those.

They wasted little time on the order, searching through the saddle bags for the most useful trinkets for the moment and for the foreseeable future. Athos noted Aramis pocketing his roll of leather which he knew to contain the few surgeons tools he had the skill to use and barely suppressed a shudder of sympathy for the ordeal Tristan had in the hopefully not too distant future. An unpleasant ordeal for sure, but one which was completely necessary if he was to survive his first mission.

After stripping the saddle bags of anything of use, they wasted little time in unbuckling the tack from each animal. Leaving Tristan's till last allowing him a few more precious moments of rest. When it came to his turn, Porthos tipped the boy into his arms and carried him carefully to the foot of a tree as though he weighed no more than a leaf.

“Yah,” Athos cried, slapping the rump of his stallion and sending him crashing through the bushes into the night. He turned in time to see Aramis pull his main-gauche from his back before bending down to their pile of tack whereupon he began slicing through the hardened leathers at certain points, rendering it useless.

“They've already taken enough from us don't you think?” he quipped as he rose from the now ruined equipment and spotted Athos' raised eyebrow.

“Too true my friend,” Athos replied, a sadness taking hold of his chest as he turned to their ailing comrade and his mind was flooded with thoughts of Gerard.

He faced the others, seeing them all readied for their flight into the darkness. Each man sporting a myriad of weapons which glinted in the night.

“Shall we then gentlemen?” he asked, shouldering the saddle bag of provisions he had gathered and heading through the close scrub of undergrowth.

“No, let me,” he heard from behind him, turning in time to see Aramis holding Porthos back with a gentle hand before bending low and lifting Tristan over one shoulder, his head hanging over Aramis' back, eliciting a groan from the barely conscious man as his wound was jarred. “Easy there now,” Aramis said, his voice tight from the exertion, “Try to sleep if you can.”

So they marched. Through the impenetrable darkness of the foliage. The moon was almost full but the light barely pierced the trees and it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of the procession. Every fibre in Athos' body warned at keeping their noises to a minimum, his nerves frayed by the thought of their footsteps being dogged. He was not used to being the hunted party. But in truth they could make as much noise as they wanted. It wouldn't take an experienced tracker to be able to read the path of four walkers through the dense forest come the morning. Every movement seemed to snap a twig or bend a blade of grass.

He knew in his heart their pursuers would have made camp for the evening, coming to the same conclusion as they had about the abilities, or lack thereof, of the horses through the scrub. If the trade off for a slightly faster path through the woods was making a din to wake the dead then so be it. They would be thankful of the distance come the morning.

He half turned his head at a curse shot from behind him, seeing Aramis stumble and almost lose both his footing and his grip on Tristan in one as his boot caught on a tree root. They had been at it for over an hour, the long grasses tugging at their legs and sapping their energy quicker than walking on a road alone would have, and the look on Aramis' face told of the cost the extra added dead weight of Tristan was taking on his body. The grim set of his mouth also dared any of them to ask him to share the burden.

Aramis had grown close to the new recruit over the past weeks and, knowing the marksman's very nature as if it were his own, Athos knew he would be feeling guilty that he had not managed to save him from his grievous wound. Never mind that in simply choosing this life, there was no guarantee for the boy that leaving the Garrison doors would ever mean coming back through them in one piece. Or even with his very life intact.

Seeing the sweat dripping down all their faces even in the cool of the night, positively soaking through Aramis' leathers, Athos halted, stopping them at a word.

“We need to rest a moment,” he said, seeing the relief in their eyes chased away by the set of their shoulders in unison as he knew he would.

“We cannot,” d'Artangan began, Porthos already nodding in agreement.

“Every minute off our feet is ground lost,” Aramis added, panting. His breath, puffs of cloud in the chill.

“We can take a moment at the least,” Athos reiterated, refusing to take no for an answer though his chest swelled with pride at their words, “none of us have taken refreshment in hours, and Aramis, you should take a proper look at Tristan's wound.”

At the mention of Tristan, the determination of the others seemed to falter. They'd none of them been able to ignore his pitiable mewls of pain at every bump in the road, though Aramis had tried to take the smoothest path. And the heat from his body had begun burning through Aramis' layers of clothing as they had marched, worrying him though he knew there was not much they could do in their current predicament.

Finally they nodded slowly in unison at the decision. Porthos stepping forward to help relieve Aramis of his burden, noting with a frown the fine tremors running through the marksman's body as he lifted Tristan from his shoulder.

“Whoa easy,” d'Artangan said, stepping forward fluidly to grab Aramis' arm as the sudden removal of the weight left him swaying once his body and the exhaustion caught up to him in a rush.

“'m okay,” he mumbled, blowing out his cheeks and wiping the back of a gloved hand across his forehead, though he braced himself against d'Artangan for longer than a moment before he managed to right his equilibrium.

Porthos turned to a particularly thick carpet of grass and lowered Tristan's body down onto it carefully, trying his hardest not to jostle the boy. Tristan's eyes were closed but they roved under his lids and a whine broke from his mouth. He was clearly in the throes of fever, a fact which struck each of them in the heart, for fever could carry you off just as swiftly as a bullet. 

Aramis removed his gloves, stuffing them into a pocket as he all but fell beside Tristan, onto his knees. He fumbled for the saddle bag at his side, opening it ready to grab whatever he would need after exposing Tristan's wounds to the air. He did so carefully, unwinding his blood soaked sash and peeling back the linens, stuck to Tristan's skin with gore. He recoiled slightly as the smell hit his unprepared nostrils, the bullet holes already red and puffy and leaking all manner of foul smelling liquids.

“Infection has set in,” he said to no one in particular. His statement more than obvious to all around him.

“What can we do?” Athos asked, not allowing himself to turn away from the sight.

“What we really need is boiling water and a surgeon but I fear we shall have neither?” Aramis said, almost in question.

“We do not have the time to spare to make a fire,” Athos said with regret.

Aramis nodded, his lips in a tight line at Athos' words. He knew deep down they could not linger. As he had said earlier, every minute not on their feet was lost ground. But the medic in him screamed to do something, anything more than what little he was able to do in the circumstance.

“Looks too far gone for the needle anyhow,” Porthos said from the side, a little green about the gills but determined to help too if he could.

“You're right my friend, unfortunately the best I can do is to drain it and bind it,” Aramis said, sorrow lacing his words.

The air turned grim around the gathered men as what Aramis had said sank in. Without speaking and seemingly as one, d'Artangan and Porthos moved in a way which would make it easier to brace against the young lad laying prone on the floor, knowing that what Aramis had planned for him would not be pleasant.

Rooting about in the saddlebag, Aramis brandished a small bottle of spirits which he had brought along for just the potential circumstance of cleaning wounds, though he'd had no idea it would be used one something so grievous when he had packed it what felt like weeks ago.

Looking to the other two he nodded once, seeing their arm muscles tense, holding Tristan to the ground as he placed his hands first around the wound on his stomach. He pressed. Hard. Sending streams of pus oozing down Tristan's side and bright blood not long after. The boy bucked feebly but did not wake and only murmured in his fevered dreams.

Aramis repeated the gesture on the lad's back where the entry wound was slightly more infected. Tristan bucked again. After making sure the holes ran freely with blood and not gunk, Aramis took a steadying breath before pouring the spirits over the now angry looking bullet holes.

Tristan screamed.

The very sound rent the air as he threw himself around, his small size belying the strength of his corded muscles as he tried in vain the tear himself from the Musketeer's hold of him and get away from the fire burning in his side. Athos moved to muffle the boy's mouth, but stopped dead as the sound cut out suddenly. Tristan's brain tapped out and he passed once again into oblivion, dead to the world once more.

Porthos unclasped his hands from Tristan's ankles and stood slowly, laying a comforting pat on Aramis' shoulder, whose breathing was a little ragged in the still air. All the nearby forest creatures had been momentarily silenced by the terrible sound which had broken through the night and the men found themselves suddenly surrounded by a thickening silence.

A moment or two later, Aramis shook himself out of his reverie, taking fresh linen squares from his bag and wadding them into the wounds before retying the sash about Tristan's waist.

“Right,” Athos said with a cough to clear his throat, feeling like a naughty schoolboy breaking the revered silence of a church, “take a drink and some food if you can and we shall be off.”

None of them felt much like eating, though they all swallowed some bread with a little water, knowing that the only way they would any of them stay on their feet was to keep their tired bodies fuelled.

“My turn,” Porthos said to Aramis, as the marksman made to bend towards Tristan's form once again. The tone of his voice brooked no argument, and Aramis took a step back. In truth he wasn't sure his muscles would have co-operated to lift Tristan dead from the ground.

Porthos heaved the youth over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing and strode forward through the trees and into the gloom, the others following in his wake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for the kudos and comments. Any feedback or critique is always more than welcome.
> 
> I'd apologise for the cliffhanger of the last chapter but in truth, I don't write my fics with planned chapters in mind. I cut them afterwards and that was just where it fit in nicely...


	4. Chapter 4

Hour passed, the darkness of the night deepening as it only can in the later months of the year. Seemingly impenetrable through the leaves. Their bodies began to ache and then their muscles began to scream and still they walked on. Feeling a flickering sense of despair as the distance seemed to fall away stilted under their trudging feet. Despair they each tried to dampen but which would blaze bright despite their best efforts. Athos looked over them occasionally. The sweat dripping down his face leaked into the gash at his temple from time to time with stinging regularity, re-moistening the dried blood on his cheek until it seemed to almost be running one again. Glancing at Aramis and d'Artangan he could see it was the same for their wounds also.

He could also feel that flickering despair amongst them with the senses that had been honed only through years of a soldier's life. He knew they needed another breather. He knew Tristan must be passed to another willing shoulder in order to not ruin Porthos. He knew they needed to tend to their own wounds which had been forgotten in the heat of the pursuit. But he also knew that they couldn't afford to keep stopping. That the monotony of the mantra running through his head 'one more step and then I shall stop them...one more step and _then_ I shall stop them' was the only thing that was keeping he himself moving though his traitorous body called for him to stop where he stood and sleep.

So he allowed the gloomy procession to continue for another treacherous hour before his trembling leg muscles called for a halt. The pounding in his head throbbed with every heartbeat and seemed to be trickling down his neck into his shoulders leaving his entire upper half tense and aching. Even what little moonlight there was seemed too bright for his sensitive eyes.

“Athos..?” The worry in d'Artangan's voice brought him back to himself from the pain clouding his vision. He realised he had come to a dead halt and had been staring off into the middle distance. He felt rather than saw the concern painted on the face of the others.

“Perhaps another break?” Aramis said slowly, moving toward Athos as though he were a wounded animal, placing his hands on his shoulders and lowering him to a fallen trunk nearby. Athos, worryingly pliant, sank down before he realised he was sitting and sent a look of admonishment at his brother who predictably ignored it with a roguish grin.

d'Artangan helped Porthos with Tristan and then set about attempting to get some water into the still unconscious lad as Porthos stretched the kinks out of his back. Even his seemingly endless stamina was beginning to waiver.

Athos weakly swatted at Aramis' hands as his head was tipped backwards in an effort for the marksman to be able to get a better view of his injury.

“Stop being _so_ Athos for pities sake,” Aramis clucked, batting Athos' hands aside easily and moving his head once more to get a better view. “Looks like they clocked you pretty well. Just how bad is that headache you've been ignoring?”

Athos mumbled curses under his breath in reply, wincing as Aramis poured a little more of the dwindling supply of spirits onto the gaping cut. He grasped the marksman's wrist firmly, however, the moment he went to pour some of his water skin over his face in order to clear off the blood.

“Save it, we don't know when we're going to be able to replenish them.”

Aramis frowned in response, but nodded once stiltedly, replacing the bottle's cap.

“Now you,” Athos said, pulling Aramis down to sit on the log beside him. It spoke volumes as to just how tired Aramis was that he was so easily able to pull him off his feet.

“It's not so bad,” Aramis said, though he flinched as Athos poked at his ruined lip.

“Looks nasty,” Athos said, poking at it again.

“Well it wouldn't be so bad if you stopped sticking your damn finger in it,” Aramis replied. Slapping Athos' hand away after he paused before aiming his finger at his split lip once again.

“If you two could stop flirting for a moment?” Porthos bit out though mirth coloured his words at their antics. “Per'aps now would be as good a time as any to talk about what we're going to do when those arseholes catch up to us.”

Athos sighed to himself. Though they were ruining themselves trying to gain ground on their pursuers, Porthos was right, and they all knew it. At one point or another they would be over run.

“My only real worry is Tristan,” Aramis replied quietly. Knowing that should it come down to another fight the boy would be unable to protect himself.

“Perhaps we will chance upon an inn before they catch up,” d'Artangan said from beside Tristan on the ground, still dribbling water into his mouth in an effort to replace the fluids he was losing to the fever.

“True. In the meantime we're going to need a good spot for an ambush,” Porthos replied.

“With only three pistols between us I doubt such a feat is so possible my friend,” Aramis said, a twinge of sadness in his voice. He knew as well as the others that this was likely their last stand unless their circumstances dramatically improved. Though he resolved to go out swinging along with his brothers.

“When it comes to it we can find a place to hide Tristan,” Athos said. Shaking off the nagging feeling that should none of them make it, they would be leaving the boy alone to die. Although in a morbid way he was thankful that Tristan had not regained his senses just yet.

“For now though, we walk?” Aramis asked, trying and failing to keep the note of exhaustion from his voice.

“We walk.”

Athos took his turn at shouldering Tristan, though the added pressure to his shoulders had his head screaming. He grunted once and strode onwards. The easy banter that usually fell between them on the road was noticeably absent as they made their way onwards. Each of them saving what little of their strength remained for the mundane drudgery of placing one foot in front of the other.

More hours passed and each of them slowly fell into a sort of hypnotic state as they moved on autopilot. Left, right. Left, right. Only jolting back fully into awareness as they stumbled or faltered, limbs pulled each way by various parts of the forest; a stretching branch, an errant root, until they began to feel like even the trees were conspiring against them.

At one point during the long hours that began stretching to morning, d'Artangan wordlessly shouldered the burden of Tristan from Athos, who didn't even have the energy at that point to acknowledge the whelp, but just continued doggedly onwards a little lighter.

The monotony of the movement, paired with the sounds of their heavy footsteps and the woodland ambience lay like a blanket over each of their heads. So the moment d'Artangan's voice broke through the bubble, when the first fingers of the sun's light began streaking the night's sky, it was like a lance to their brains.

“I don't think he's breathing any more!”

Gone was the leaden feeling in each of their muscles. Gone was the stupor in each of their heads. After a moment's pause they launched into action. Working together like a well oiled machine.

Porthos flew to d'Artangan's side, pulling Tristan from his shoulders and laying him on the ground. d'Artangan fell beside them, eyes wild and roving over Tristan's suddenly too silent form as they sought any sign of life. Athos caught the saddle bag thrown his way by Aramis, who launched himself beside the boy, pulling off his gloves and licking the back of his hand. He held it against the Tristan’s mouth for a moment, not feeling the tell tale cooling which would speak of breath.

He threw himself forward, laying his head on Tristan's chest, trying and failing to feel his heartbeat.

“No, no, no, no,” he mumbled to himself, as he fisted his hands together, hitting the boy in the centre of his chest as he had once seen a physician doing to a dying man. Nothing happened. He did it again, noting in his moment of panic, just how much blood had leaked through the sash once again. He hit Tristan one more time, leaning forward and listening for the still absent heartbeat again. Nothing.

He pulled back as if to hit the boy's chest once more and found his hands held back by Athos, who stood grimly behind Aramis, and shook his head slowly at Aramis' questioning gaze.

“No! Let go of me! I will not lose him!”

“Aramis. My friend. He is gone.”

All at once the fight seemed to flee from Aramis and he crumpled, folding in on himself from where he knelt on the ground. His head hanging down to his chest.

Athos slowly released his hold on the marksman's still upheld hands, and they fell with a thud to his legs. He looked around, noting the too bright shine in d'Artangan's eyes and the raw sadness on Porthos' face and lowered his own gaze.

Losing Gerard had been tough. It was always so when losing a brother on the field of battle. But after carrying Tristan so far in the hopes of saving his young life, this was like a hammer to the heart.

“He was just a boy,” Aramis said after a pause, so quiet they almost missed it.

“No,” Athos replied grimly, knowing he had to pull them back from this blow to their morale for fear of losing all of them. “He was a soldier.”

The words rang true to their very souls and after a moment, they nodded as one.

“Only the dead have seen the end of war,” Aramis replied. His breath hitching.

The world seemed to stand still for a time as they each fell into a reverie, lending some precious minutes to the short time Tristan had been a part of their brotherhood. He lay between them all. Peaceful for the first time since he had been shot. His body seeming tiny in death.

Athos finally broke the silence, jolting them all from themselves.

“We may not tarry.”

“We can't just...leave him like this,” d'Artangan said, trying and failing to mask the horror of the thought.

“We do not have the time for proper rites and rituals,” Athos began, holding up a gentle hand to stop d'Artangan's tirade of abuse before it started. “We can spare a moment to give him what respect we may but I do not believe he would appreciate us giving our lives in order to be able to properly honour his death.”

“You are right...as usual,” d'Artangan all but whispered. Chastised. “My apologies.”

“Nothin' to apologise for squirt,” Porthos said from beside him. Laying a ham like hand on his shoulder in a gesture of unity, “there's not a man 'ere that doesn't want to lay 'im to rest proper. But what we can do is make sure we 'onour 'is memory...and make the bastard that did this to 'im pay.”

The fire that lit in Porthos' eyes seemed to embolden them all in their moment of despair and a warmth bloomed in their chests. d'Artangan rose to his feet, a new purpose burning in his chest. Athos felt pleased that their youngest, at least, had not had his spirit completely broken by the events of the past hours. He turned slowly to Aramis who, though obviously with a renewed vigour at Porthos' words, was still bent, broken by loss once again. He moved, laying his hands on Aramis' shoulders for a moment before helping him to his feet. The marksman nodded his thanks before heaving a sigh, steel replacing the grief in his eyes.

They worked quickly but reverently. Moving Tristan off their obvious path through the forest and to a thicket close by where they placed him beneath the bows of a bent and gnarled old tree, tucking him amongst the roots and placing his hands upon his chest. They used his cloak to wrap his body, laying his sword upon the shroud and wrapping his pauldron, the leather still stiff and unspoiled, around the hilt. They bowed their heads, Aramis muttering a prayer under his breath in his mother tongue, before they covered the body with the loose leaves and branches littering the ground. Hiding the obvious Musketeer blue from unwelcome eyes.

Aramis kissed the necklace about his neck after motioning the sign of the cross in the air for the last time before turning to the others.

“Let us leave.”

They turned as one, not looking back upon the sad scene they were leaving, knowing it would do neither themselves nor Tristan any good to linger within the clearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across 'only the dead have seen the end of war' online. Apparently said by Plato so lets attribute it to him for now.  
> I loved it anyhow so I borrowed it.
> 
> As always thanks for the feedback, any comments and critiques are always greatly appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun had fully risen by this point although the hour was still early. Birds began their morning song lightening the sombre mood somewhat, changing the dingy forest into a vibrant hub of life. However with the light came a new challenge. Gone was their one foe of exhaustion. With the light came the knowledge that their broken bodies would once again be pursued by d'Avery's men.

As they crashed through one wall of cascading leaves, a small road became visible in the distance. Athos raised his weary head, taking in the scene completely. Two options became available. Continue dragging themselves through the thick undergrowth in an attempt at hampering the horses of the men on their tails. Or head for the road, quickening their pace but doubling their chances of meeting their enemy early. 

It seemed as though his very muscles made the choice for him however. Every time they stopped, fine shakes in his legs would become apparent as they protested the hours of abuse he had put them through. He did not know how long they would co-operate before giving up on him completely. 

He looked to the others, seeing them all gazing his way awaiting their orders. They were a sorry bunch in the pink light of the morning. Filthy from clawing their way through trees and dirt for the long hours of the night. Covered in blood and not a pair of eyes between them that were not ringed with dark smudges of exhaustion. If his own legs were not telling him that the road was the only way forward, then the grim determination on the faces of his ruined men definitely was. He could not ask them to take the harder path, though he knew they would in a second at his word. A responsibility he refused to ever take for granted. 

Not even having the muster to talk, he motioned with his head instead towards the road, seeing the minute expression of relief crossing each of their faces and knowing he had made the right choice, even if it did lead to their doom. They hauled themselves through the final tugging vines and out into the road. The air felt less close there although the path, for it could barely be called a road, was enclosed on all sides by the encroaching forest. 

They took a moment to stretch the kinks out of their tired bodies, before moving as one once more. Easing into a diamond formation instinctively. Athos to the front, d'Artangan and Porthos on the flanks and Aramis bringing up the rear. His keen vision made him the perfect scout and as a rearguard, offered the chance he might spot their pursuers before they caught sight of them. Although Athos secretly wondered if any one of them would notice anything less than a carriage bearing down upon them such was the level of stupor brought on by fatigue. 

Walking without a tangled carpet of green was like a heavenly balm for their drained legs. At least for the first hour or so. Soon even the absence of forestry tugging at their leathers was no longer a novelty. Athos held an arm out automatically, catching d'Artangan who's stumbling footfalls had finally tangled his feet to a point where he would have bit dirt if not for his mentor's surprisingly quick reaction. 

“I think it is time we began looking for a good spot,” he huffed out to the others. Stopping dead in the road, one hand still braced against d'Artangan's shoulder as the lad swayed a little drunkenly on his feet. At his words, however, the whelp straightened. Vigour apparently spreading through his whole body and a grit in his expression as he evidently refused to be the reason they would attempt to make what was probably going to be their final stand. 

Looking over the others though, he softened his face. There was no point in hiding how done in he was when they looked the way they did too. A sorry bunch the lot of them. Aramis placed his hands tiredly on his waist and dropped his head, heaving a breath. 

“Well as I said previously, three pistols does not an ambush make,” he said, his very words sounding wearied. 

“No, but the one advantage we do 'ave is that those arse'oles don't know we only 'ave three,” Porthos said from beside his friend. 

“Right,” Athos said with a nod, “We'll use the initial barrage to confuse them and then rush them from the sides. With any luck their horses will spook giving us some kind of advantage. Aramis, do you still have any leftover shot?” 

“I have enough for four rounds but I do not wish to stay in the safety of the trees whilst you throw yourselves onto the mercy of those brutes,” Aramis said passionately. Fire colouring his bleary eyes. 

“I know my friend but you'll do more damage from the trees initially,” Athos said, knowing Aramis' need to be in the middle of the fray would extend to all of them but also knowing that his flair with a pistol might turn the tide of battle slightly to their favour. 

“If you make me watch from behind a branch whilst you die I will kill you,” Aramis replied after a moment, his first stab at humour in a long while falling flat as he seemingly acquiesced to Athos' request. 

“Well with you watching our backs I reckon we're less likely to do the latter,” d'Artangan piped up, smiling as he saw Athos nod at his encouraging words. 

“We're going to need somewhere with a couple of steep banks...” Porthos began.

They trekked up a sharper incline of the path, eyes peeled as they made their staggering journey onwards. Their new goal giving a lightness to their spent bodies which Athos knew they had to exploit before it inevitably drained away. 

“There you go.” 

Athos whirled to Porthos, whose voice had taken a low and dangerous edge. The big man's eyes had narrowed as he surveyed the land in front of them. They all knew terrain which would lend itself well to such action. A soldier's instincts saw well to that. But Porthos came from a darker background. One where knowing which shadow would cover your whole body like the blackest silk meant the difference between your next meal, or clutching your aching sides in the cold as your stomach spoke to you. His eye could pick out the best vantage points, the best places for concealment and the best spots to capture your target unawares without having to even think about it. Echoes from his past called like voices on the wind. 

Athos turned and nodded once to him. Before scanning the area thoroughly. 

“Aramis, up on that ridge. d'Artangan, up the bank close to him. Porthos, you're with me. With any luck the last thing they'll be expecting is for the foxes to bite back.”

Porthos and d'Artangan nodded in synch before turning and heading to their prospective locations. He turned to Aramis, who seemed to be hesitating for some reason.

“I would not put too much trust in my aim this time my friend,” he said to Athos, a seriousness in his eyes which was usually purposefully concealed under layers of merriment and charm. He held out a hand without any preamble, allowing Athos to see it shaking.

Athos met his brother's gaze for a moment before looking at him properly for what felt like the first time in a long time. None of them had allowed themselves to acknowledge just how bone weary and utterly ruined they were after over an entire day and night's continuous exertion with little rest and no sleep. But now, with his very brothers at stake, evidently Aramis felt the need to draw attention to his own shortcomings under the circumstances. Pride cost lives. 

The marksman was as done in as the rest of them. His body racked with a fine trembling which refused to stop even though they were stationary. His outstretched hand still shook stubbornly despite every effort to quell it. He twitched slightly in his misery. His face still painted with crusted blood from his torn lip. Not ready nor willing to throw in his hat but very aware that this time even his legendary skill with the musket was likely to be compromised given his condition. 

Athos wasted no time, nor did he insult Aramis' own evaluation of his abilities. He had an iron faith in the marksman, but if he felt the need to wave the flag of caution then Athos would listen.

“The plan remains the same. Do what you can. Nothing more is or can be expected, and no matter the outcome I know wherever the balls fly they go by the very best of your aim.”

Aramis nodded tersely, smiling grimly before clapping Athos on the shoulder and turning, hauling himself up to where he would have the best view of anyone travelling the road. 

They waited. Time seemed to pass like running honey. Thick and slowly in the air. Athos found himself leaning against the tree he was concealing himself behind. His head bobbed slowly, closer to the bark. Jolting him back awake as it finally made contact. The sun was out proper by now, and where they stood happened to be in a spot where the rays were at full beam. Though it was the latter part of the year, what little heat they did give out was enough to begin to lull them into a dangerous sleepiness. 

Athos shook his head and made himself stand to attention, not using anything as a leaning post. He could not afford to be caught off guard. He glanced worriedly Porthos, who scowled, obviously concentrating on keeping himself awake also. From where they stood, neither man could see the others across on their bank, and he dared not call out to them to check how they fared. 

He needn't have worried though. A shrill, bird like whistle cut across the relative silence of the forest. A sound Athos instantly recognised as coming from Aramis. It was his preferred method of warning when they could not use words.

Instantly he was on the alert, scanning what little he could see through the trees to find what it was that had piqued his friend's interest. Faintly in the distance he saw a cloud of dust, kicked up from the dried path and blown to their location ahead of whoever travelled it. 

Any doubt that it was their pursuers was quickly quashed as the unmistakable thrum of horse's hooves followed not long behind it. Broken by the muffled calls of the men riding them. 

He almost felt the others tense up. It was as though the woods themselves had taken a deep breath. 

The din rose in volume until it felt as though they were surrounded by it. The men cursed and laughed at their sport. Clearly feeling they were getting close to their prize. How right they were.

On some distant plane, Athos felt his very bones shudder at the knowledge that the distance they had spent the whole of the night gaining on the men, costing them precious reserves of energy, had been traversed in mere hours by horseback. He mentally shook himself, pulling his wavering attention fully back to unfolding scene before them. 

They had positioned themselves at the head of a turn in the road. From their four vantage points they could see multiple angles and a wide expanse of the forest. Aramis having the view whereupon he would be the first to spot anyone using the pathway. Athos practically felt his brother priming for his first shot. 

The previously tranquil scene was shattered as easily fifteen or more mounted horses crashed through the foliage, taking the corner at a fast trot. They jeered and cackled amongst themselves, clearly well rested and primed for the hunt that day. Not one of them was unarmed, several loaded with many pistols as well as a rapier. They practically glittered in the sunlight. 

A bang. A yelp and a crashing as one of the men took a tumble from his horse. The shot not outright killing him but the trampling feet of his comrade's beasts doing the job as they could do nothing but run over his stricken body in the road. 

Pandemonium. 

The men pulled up short, their horses turning one way and another, several losing control completely and thundering off through the trees despite their rider's wishes. These were typical stable horses, not trained in war nor ready for the sudden clap of gunshot. 

For the men who did manage to get their animals back under control, finding their assailants became top priority. They turned every which way in the saddle, trying and failing to set eyes upon the ghostly assassins. 

Athos lowered his gun, levelling his pistol and aiming it at the obvious form of Durant, who had begun hollering indiscernible orders to his men whilst whipping his own weapon from his belt. Athos held a breath, steadying his hand and firing. 

The shot went wide and missed Durant completely, but hit dead into the centre of the chest of a man to his left. After a valiant attempt at keeping his seat, the man slumped to the side, dead or unconscious, and slowly thumped to the ground. Two for two. Athos knew d'Artangan would be priming his musket for a shot. Their plan being to stagger the bullets and also the locations of their three guns in order to confuse their pursuers and scare the horses they rode upon. 

So far it seemed to be working. The horses squealed, scared out of their minds in the centre of a heaving mass of their brethren with gun shots and the scent of blood heavy in the air. They began to kick out at one another, biting and bucking in an attempt to get free. Two men were thrown from their saddles and lay in the mud, their pained yells silenced by the sharp, panicked hooves. 

d'Artangan's musket rang out. Gaining a well aimed shot was almost impossible in the whirling group of bodies and the bullet only clipped one of the men, winging him but leaving him still seated. One of the others had caught sight of the sun glinting off of the whelp's gun barrel and pointed it out loudly, kicking his horse free of the panic and aiming it up the bank, a few others on his tail. 

To the swords then, Athos thought grimly to himself. Waiting until the men had thundered past him on their way to his brother before hurling himself into the fray. His own battle cry completely dwarfed by Porthos' howl of rage. 

The man tried valiantly to turn in his seat to view the source of the yells behind him, but the angles of the bank and the uncontrollable beast beneath his legs made it impossible. He flew from his saddle with a yelp of pure surprise as Porthos dragged him backwards, clean off his horse, before plunging his main gauche into his chest, piercing his heart. As the man stilled, more cries rent the forest, and Athos and Porthos turned to see a wall of men descending upon them. 

It seemed they had finally abandoned trying to keep their mounted positions in favour of their own two feet. The horses still fought and bucked in the background, trying to make sense of their predicament. But their riders now bore down upon the Musketeers, swords and pistols raised and shining in the sunlight streaming through the trees. Several of their guns went off, though sheer luck or a poor aim seemed to be on their side as none of the bullets met their mark. A bang behind Athos signalled the end of another of Durant's men's lives however, as it seemed Aramis had managed to reload and fire in the interim. 

d'Artangan joined them, streaming down the bank with the litheness of youth, his sword raised and a deadly glint in his eye. They fanned out automatically, finding the best footing and the highest ground possible as the remaining men broke off from the pack into three groups to meet them. Athos' sword sang as he raised it to meet the oncoming swinging arc of an opponent. 

Though they had felled many of the men it seemed as though they would never stop coming. Athos cleaved his way through one and another instantly stepped into his place. This one, it seemed, had had some training with a sword. He met Athos' swings blow for blow and, with the advantage of a good night's sleep on his side, began whittling down the Musketeer's remaining reserves. Athos threw himself into a heaving slash, the sheer power of the swing taking almost all of his dwindling energy. The sword clashed against his foe's and held for a moment before Athos was thrown to one side by a returned blow. He staggered, losing his feet and half falling to the ground. Twisting desperately to try to stay standing. Knowing that the second he went down he would be going down for good. 

The man stepped forward, victory in his eyes and a sneer marring his face as he raised his sword, two handed, to deliver the killing blow. 

Blood erupted from his chest, and from some distant place Athos recognised the echoing bang of a gunshot as he finally regained his balance and turned. He tipped his hat at the tree line where he knew Aramis to be standing, eyes on the battle, as his opponent took his final ragged breaths from the floor where he had fallen. 

Three shots. Aramis was now down to one. They wouldn't be able to rely on his covering protection for much longer. 

Athos took a moment to survey the battle ground. A few men lay dead or dying on the floor but there were still what seemed to be huge numbers left. Easily three to one until Aramis could join the battle proper. Usually numbers which would not concern the Musketeer, but his men were flagging. Porthos' swings were heavy. d'Artangan's movements, slowed. Lord only knew the state of their marksman. He himself could feel the trembling of his whole body in his moment of contemplation. He had to think of a way out of this battle before it claimed their lives. 

He looked to the thrum of horses. A few had kicked their way free of their brethren and stood, chests heaving and eyes rolling wildly. All the Musketeers needed was a couple of mounts and they could gain some ground on their would be assailants whilst they lost time trying to untangle the rest of their beasts. 

Athos was ripped from his thoughts by a cry of pain. d'Artangan. He whipped back to face the boy, twenty feet or so from where he was stood. One of the men had managed to grab a hold of him and held a knife to his throat as another stood in front of him with a gun levelled at his chest; Durant. 

“Musketeers!” He called into the clearing. Stilling his own men's movements as well as Porthos' and Athos'. “Lay down your weapons or this one gets a bullet in his eye.” 

Porthos' snarl ripped through the now silent clearing as his corded muscles bulged in his neck. He would rip the very flesh from Durant's bones if given the chance. 

“Porthos.” At Athos' word, the giant turned, anger written on his face as he threw down his sword. 

Athos turned to Durant, his eyes flicking in Aramis' direction for a split second. Giving him the permission to take the shot he knew the Spaniard would be priming for. 

“That's bet-.” Whatever Durant was going to say as he threw a vicious grin in Athos' direction, spying the Musketeer about to lower his weapon, was cut off by a bang from the trees. 

“No!” Athos called as the next few seconds panned out in slow motion. The man holding the dagger to d'Artangan's throat recoiled, grasping for his shoulder as blood gushed freely down his arm. Not a kill wound then. Simultaneously, shots rang out across the forest. Some aiming for the trees where Aramis' own pistol had fired. Durant's however, was aimed squarely at d'Artangan still. It bucked as he pulled the trigger. 

Porthos had started moving the second Aramis' shot had rang out, and he barrelled into Durant, knocking his gun wide. But not wide enough. 

d'Artangan cried out. Staggering backwards as the close range bullet flew into him, knocking him flat on his back. 

Athos stood for a horrified moment before shaking himself back into action. Durant's men descended on Porthos' thrashing form, as he wrestled with Durant through the under brush. A wild cry from above tore his gaze to the bank where Aramis suddenly appeared. All hell fire and anger. 

He didn't even have time to draw his sword, instead bodily throwing himself at the scrum of men surrounding Porthos, using his spent pistol as a vicious club and trying to pull them free of his brother. 

Athos ran toward the two horses which had broken from the herd. Fighting the urge to throw himself beside d'Artangan to check to see if the lad was still breathing. He forced himself to relax his muscles. Knowing that his own tense and panicked state would translate to the beasts he now lay a hand on. 

“Easy, easy now,” he breathed at them. The wild look was still in their eyes but they responded to his air of authority and moved along with him after pawing at the earth for a few moments.

He led them wide of the turbulent mass of flailing arms and legs that signalled the fight going badly for his friends. Wrestling his own nature once again by not throwing himself into the centre of it. Right now he needed to be a leader, not a soldier. 

He finally reached his target after what felt like a thousand years, and found himself suddenly too scared to actually check if d'Artangan's heart still beat. The boy was lying on the ground, pale and bleeding in a grotesque mirror image of Tristan, and for a moment Athos' confused mind couldn't focus on his face. The thrum of his own heart filled his ears and he shook his head, the sounds of the fight coming back in full stereo as he finally pulled himself together and leant down to d'Artangan's aid. 

“d'Art?” he breathed tentatively. Aware on some level that the boy wouldn't be able to hear his whispering through the cacophony of calls but also scared to really try to wake the lad in case he didn't. As he leaned down however, d'Artangan came to with a flail. His eyes wide as he blinked owlishly, roving in a moment of panic before settling on Athos' own. The terror instantly bleeding out of them.

“A-thos,” he began, coughing weakly and trying to push himself to a seated position. 

“Hush whelp, and stop trying to move,” Athos said, his relief an almost palpable being. The boy lived although what damage was done he could not see, such was the blood coating his leathers.

“Where does it hurt?” 

“Arm..I think,” d'Artangan replied, a frown on his face as he tried to figure out where he had been hit. The pain and numbness no doubt confusing his senses. 

Knowing there was no time to check, Athos instead bent down, levering d'Artangan up into a standing position using his good arm and mumbling apologies as he went. He all but dragged the boy to the side of one of the prancing horses, throwing him against the saddle and pushing him up into the seat where he grasped at the pommel with his good hand. Swaying slightly. 

“Just hold on,” Athos said, worry rolling from him in waves. Worry for the boy. Worry for his friends. He had no idea of their circumstance as he turned back to the battle. 

Porthos was still entrenched in the centre of a heaving mass of bodies. Aramis was on the edge, still trying desperately to get to their brother but obviously close to the very end of his reserves as his every movement was laboured. His face was a mask of blood, his lip having opened again and a nasty looking gash above his eyebrow freely streaming down his face. 

“Go!” Athos was torn from the scene by Porthos' call and jumped inwardly. Not expecting it. “Get out of here! Save the boy!” 

Porthos had managed to get himself half standing, practically with one foot on Durant who was unconscious beneath him, his face bruised and bloody after Porthos' assault. A moment later, two of Durant's men had thrown themselves at him, wrapping their arms around his huge shoulders as they began dragging him backwards across the clearing. 

“No! Porthos!” Aramis called wildly, the fire reigniting in his eyes as he made to move towards the mass of remaining men, felling one more opponent with a tremendous roundhouse punch. 

“Aramis. Aramis! Come. We must go. d'Artangan needs us now. Come on! We shall return for him,” Athos yelled out as he ran forward, laying a hand on the bucking shoulder of the marksman and trying to pull him towards the horses. Only by the mention of d'Artangan did Athos stop a suicidal rush by the Spaniard towards where Durant's men were regrouping. Clearly using whatever they could to tie Porthos down. 

Athos was staggered by the look of pure anguish on Aramis' face as he ripped his gaze from his still fighting brother and turned back to where d'Artangan was now passed out, lying almost flat against his horse's neck.

Athos clapped Aramis once on the shoulder, his own heart leaden with the knowledge that they were leaving yet another brother behind. Damn this mission to the depths of hell. 

They turned as one, him mounting behind the whelp and dragging him upwards to rest against his chest. Aramis hauling himself into the other beast's saddle. The adrenaline lending them the strength to do so. 

They kicked out and tore from the clearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback so far! Any and all comments and critiques are always welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

They rode as hard as they dared for an hour. The sun was high in the sky now although a chilling wind still bit at the exposed skin of their faces as they hurtled along the dusty pathway. Athos tensed as another shudder ran through his body, not sure if it came from himself or his charge, still clutched as well as he could be across his chest with one arm. 

d'Artangan had been quiet the entire time as they flew and Athos was not sure if the boy was even conscious. What he had noticed was the continuous flow of blood which had been leaking sluggishly down his arm since they had abandoned the clearing. Abandoned Porthos. 

The leader in him knew he had made the right decision. Sacrificing one man to save the rest was always a terrible trade off, but one he knew had been made on countless battlefields by countless generals and captains for centuries. But this was not just a man. This was Porthos. This was fully one quarter of his entire being. Their entire being. He did not want to face the moment when he actually had to trade words with Aramis since he'd dragged the Spaniard from the fray. But that moment was fast approaching if the clammy feel of d'Artangan's forehead was anything to go by. 

“Aramis. We're going to have to have a look at him.” 

Athos' voice cut across the thundering hooves, though it did not seem to register to his comrade, whose horse was slightly outpacing his own as it moved with half the burden of its stable-mate. 

“Aramis!” 

This time his words seemed to reach his friend, who pulled at the reins and slowed the horse's stride. Athos mirrored the manoeuvre and pulled back until they were little more than plodding.

“It looks as though he is suffering from blood loss,” Aramis droned. His voice flat as his gaze roved over d'Artangan's too pale face. Athos almost flinched as he caught sight of the marksman's eyes. They were completely devoid of the usual sparkle, the mischievous glint. They were dead. 

“We can spare some moments to see to him. It seems our pursuers are...” Athos trailed off before saying the word. He had thought to say that they were distracted. But this drew up images of Porthos in pain and his imagination was no friend in showing him all the things they could be doing to their brother. 

The hesitation did not go unmissed by Aramis however, and his face tightened into a frown. His eyes flashing for the first time since Athos had been looking to him. 

“We need to get him on the ground.” Aramis' tone was clipped and unfriendly. Athos knew he would be internally wrestling with himself. The medic warring with the warrior. Athos wanted nothing more than to turn his horse on its heel and send it thundering back to where they had left Porthos behind. But with d'Artangan in trouble that would be nothing short of condemning the boy to death. Something he would not do. 

He was expecting Aramis to yell. To rant and rave, the Spanish blood running thick in his veins fuelling his fiery passion. But what he was entirely not expecting was the sudden slump in his shoulders. The fall in his head or even the glint of the unshed tears in his eyes. 

“Aramis?..” he questioned gently. All but whispering so as not to startle the man.

“This is all my fault.” 

Again Athos was floored. He knew they were incapable of hating one another. But the complete love and trust they had for each other leant itself to a fiercely turbulent swirl of emotions and more than once they had screamed, raged or even come to blows because of it. He was expecting a fist to the face. Not the defeated words which tumbled from his comrade's mouth.

“How can you possibly believe that?” Athos asked. Still utterly confused. 

“I should have put a bullet in Durant's head. I should have shot the gun from his hand. Stopped him in some way. Instead I went for the bastard holding the knife and I couldn't even do that properly!” Aramis bit out. His words growing louder until by the final one he was shouting. 

Athos allowed a moment before he thought to answer. He noted the fine tremors rattling through Aramis' whole body. The minute shake of the slackened reins in the hands that would not stop twitching. The dark bruises of exhaustion under his eyes which were black even under the layers of blood drying on his face. The man was dead on his feet. Understanding finally coloured his mind as he took in the sorry state of his brother. Aramis had lined up the shot for the knife wielding assassin and missed. Only winging him rather than sending him to meet his maker. A worthy shot for any person from that distance and with the weight of fatigue which lay heavily on all of them. But for Aramis, who had been trying to stop their d'Artangan from being hurt, it was not good enough. 

“None of this is the fault of any one of us,” Athos began quietly. Trying to let himself believe the words he was saying, to ease off the shell of guilt encompassing himself also. 

“Porthos-” whatever Aramis thought to say was cut short as his breath hitched. He took a moment to compose himself before trying again. “Porthos is gone because of me.” 

“Porthos is not gone,” Athos said, though his heart beat a leaden thud at his words, attempting to convince him otherwise. “He is merely...misplaced until we get d'Artangan home. They we shall go and retrieve him.” 

Aramis turned his head to the side, refusing to make eye contact with Athos.

“Do you really think Porthos would allow them to remove himself from us so soon?” Athos tried instead. An answering smile crossing his lips at the smirk which appeared from under the lip of Aramis' bent hat. 

“I do not believe he would give them the satisfaction.” 

“Precisely. If anything they'll be ready to hand him right over the second they see us. No doubt with more than a bruise or two to remember him by,” Athos replied, trying desperately to feel some of the bravado he had infused his words with. 

“The bill alone...to feed him...would drain the gold from the...baron's very...tapestries.” 

At the broken voice both men started, looking to d'Artangan, still cradled in Athos' arms. 

“d'Artangan! You appear to still be with us at the least,” Athos said, joy colouring his words. 

Aramis had already begun to move, hauling a leg across the back of his horse stiffly as he prepared to dismount. As he hit the ground, his legs wobbled visibly and he took a moment before daring to release the saddle where he held a death grip. As soon as he was able he turned with open arms to take a gently lowered d'Artangan from Athos' hold. 

“There we go, easy lad,” he mumbled as he attempted to place d'Artangan on the ground with as much care as his broken muscles would allow. He hissed as he bent his legs and Athos' gaze whipped to him instantly. A frown of suspicion marring his face.

“Aramis?..” 

“It's nothing. The lad first.” 

Allowing the concern for the marksman to fade to the background until they had dealt with d'Artangan, he attempted his own dismount. His legs almost giving out also the second he hit the floor. Turning to the others, he knelt besides them on the dew moistened earth. 

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Help me with his doublet.” 

Athos fumbled at the edge of the leather jacket as Aramis pulled d'Artangan from the ground towards him to allow Athos to remove the item of clothing completely. The whelp had passed back into unconsciousness, his eyes still tight with pain though his mouth was slack. Aramis lowered him back to the mattress of decaying leaves, worry on his face as he saw the sheer amount of blood colouring d'Artangan's shirt sleeve. It had coated the entirety of his arm and saturated the fabric, and still appearing to be leaking slowly from the wound.

“That would account for our friend's unusual complexion,” he said almost to himself, pulling his main gauche from his back and cutting through the blousy material, pulling the sleeve away to expose the boy's arm. Both the wizened warriors hissed in sympathy. Luckily, though it was more than luck at the distance Durant had pulled the trigger, the bullet had not lodged itself into his arm but instead had carved a deep furrow through the skin, ripping out a whole chunk of flesh which oozed in the air. 

“I will not be able to close this with a needle,” Aramis muttered, pulling at his beard as he thought.

“You could not do so even if you thought you could,” Athos reminded gently. Their bags of supplies siphoned from their own horses had been left, discarded in the heat of battle.

Aramis swore darkly and thoroughly in Spanish for a moment, before absently pawing for the jewelled cross about his neck. The move worried Athos. That the marksman might be looking to god so soon could not bode well. 

“I would suggest cauterising the wound if we had time to stoke a fire,” he said to Athos, almost posing the question again. Athos found himself hurled terribly back in time to when Aramis had made the same request for Tristan. He doubted the mere presence of a fire might have been enough to save the boy from his unfortunate end, but now it was as though he was given the time over again to review every decision they had made. Though d'Artangan's wound would not be life threatening in many other circumstances, the fact they were still so far from home with limited medical supplies and with the whelp having lost so much blood already, his chances were tipping towards being more dire. 

“I think in this we must try,” he replied. Noting the grim set of Aramis' jaw. He knew that by delaying for a fire they would be chancing being set upon once again by the Baron's dogs. But they would either make it as a team or not at all. 

“Then we must gather wood,” Aramis said, hauling himself to his feet using a nearby branch. As he did so, he staggered again, a curse breaking from his mouth before he could stop it.

“What aren't you telling me?” Athos asked worriedly. He had leapt to his feet to help his ailing brother, his body protesting weakly at the quickened movement.

“It is nothing, the boy first,” Aramis repeated. Though this time with less conviction. He knew he was losing the battle of wills.

“The boy will suffer the lack of your medical knowledge if you pass out yourself before you're able to tend to him,” Athos replied sternly. Putting pressure on the marksman's forearm he had grabbed to steady him. 

Aramis lowered his gaze for a moment before nodding mutely. He opened the buttons of his own long doublet, moving it to expose his side. Blood blossomed on his shirt, bright red against the white linen.

“What happened?!” Athos cried, moving forward to inspect the wound as best as he was able.

“When I was in the trees-” 

“The bullets?” Athos said, remembering how a few of the men had aimed their guns to where they thought the Musketeer might have been standing. It looked like they had managed to get lucky.

“How bad?” 

Athos' tone brooked no argument and Aramis answered truthfully for once.

“It is not as bad as it looks, only a flesh wound. Though the bullet hit a rib. I think it might be cracked.”

“Of all the stubborn, mule-headed men I must be surrounded by,” Athos began, muttering to himself as he unwound his scarf. “Here, we'll have to use this to bind it for now. There is nothing else. How you've managed to ride so long with a cracked rib, why did you not mention it?!” 

Athos all but hauled Aramis out of his jacket, pulling the bottom of his shirt upwards and having Aramis hold it so he could better get a look at the furrow, ignoring the grunt of pain it illicited. Served the mad bastard right. As he padded the graze before wrapping the scarf as tight as he could around Aramis' chest though, he had a feeling he might know why the marksman had chosen to suffer in silence. As some sort of ridiculous penance for what he imagined was his fault. At the thought, his ministrations became more gentle. He tied the knot in the remaining fabric as tightly as he could before lowering Aramis' arms. 

“There now, it's not ideal but it'll hold until we get back to Paris. You're right for once, it is not as bad as all the blood would have it, but it's deep enough that infection could still be a problem. If it begins to feel warm or uncomfortable, I expect to be told at the very instant,” he said, his voice dry and droll but the inflection of exasperated fondness very apparent. 

“I promise. Is it time for my sponge bath now?” Aramis said, leering and batting his lashes though the familiar flash of mirth was still missing from his eyes. 

“You are incorrigible.”

At that moment, d'Artangan it seemed almost demanded their attention back on himself as he came to with a groan, his eyes blinking furiously to try to clear his vision. His head rolled as he tried to focus on his brothers, a frown on his face mixing with the tight lines of pain.

“Wha's happ'nin'?” he he attempted. His mouth thick with a dryness born of dehydration warring with pain.

“Hush for once whelp, don't try to speak,” Aramis said, bending back down to their charge stiffly to avoid any further strain on his freshly abused ribs. He reached for the water skin he had thankfully thought to tie to his belt rather than add to the bags they had had to abandon, and dribbled a thin stream of the warm and depleted water into d'Artangan's mouth. He swallowed with a grateful sigh, whimpering a little as the water skin was removed.

“Just a little for now or you'll make yourself sick,” Athos said, concern on his face as he quietly shook his own cannister to check how much of the precious liquid remained. It was practically empty. In almost a day and a half of wandering they had yet to chance upon a fresh supply of water, and he did not recall passing even a friendly stream on their mounted journey to the Baron's home. They had hardly had time to think about the basic function of eating and drinking in their mad dash to escape. But now they had paused for the longest moment in their journey, Athos' mouth suddenly seemed all at once uncomfortably dry. 

What precious little they did have would have to be rationed from here on out. Although Athos was not pushing worried just yet. They were thirsty for sure, to a point where a lukewarm sip from the water skin was becoming like nectar from the gods. But the distance they had travelled by foot put them within a half day's ride at the most before they began to approach Paris proper, and the promise of a refreshing drink. 

They'd lost their last reserves of food along with everything else also. But an empty belly was a lot easier to ignore and, as soldiers, there had been plenty a time before when they couldn't reliably plan for their next meal. Not one amongst them wasn't a stranger to looking past the ache of hunger. Though admittedly a bowl of Serge's rib sticking stew would not have gone amiss. 

Athos shook himself out of his thoughts as Aramis stood once again. 

“I'm going to gather what wood I can. It's best you do the same. We're going to need to get this fire hot.” 

Athos swallowed thickly, nodding at Aramis' words. There had been one time they had had to seal the marksman's flesh in much the same way. A sword wound across the top of his thigh which stubbornly refused to stop leaking his precious life blood. The slash had been ragged and they'd been unable to close it with the needle. Hearing Aramis, who was usually so stoic, so stubborn when it came to vocalising any sort of pain, practically screaming as his flesh had seared and sizzled had been unnerving to say the least. It was not a memory any of them cherished. Indeed he saw Aramis absently rubbing the spot where the jagged scar still stood proud. 

Athos swallowed again, this time to try to clear the bile which had risen to the back of his throat at the thought. Neither of them wanted to put d'Artangan through the ordeal. Especially with the energy draining events of the past days. But it was necessary. Potentially life saving. It would be done.

He wandered from the clearing, purposefully stepping in the opposite direction to Aramis in order that the Spaniard would not see the way his own face had paled, or the uncertainty which glinted in his pupils. Bending down, he began to gather armfuls of wood, taking them and placing them not too far away from where the lad lay on the ground, his olive skin an almost ashy grey as the blood continued to ooze. His eyelids fluttered as he fought the siren call of darkness once again. 

Athos was already looking back at mere tiredness with almost a fond smile himself, let alone with the fatigue which naturally came alone with blood loss. 

“Sleep d'Artangan. Take the moment whilst you can,” he said softly. It was as if the boy was almost waiting for permission. Not five seconds later, he was out. Completely dead to the world, and the ministrations of his brothers, who carried on adding to the wood pile until it stood almost knee high. The wood was scraps and bits of frayed bark. This was not a fire which would have to burn for any length of time. But one which would have to burn brightly. Burn hot. 

Athos' mouth set itself into a grim line as he knelt down before the mini bonfire and began to set it ablaze. As soon as it took a hold proper, Aramis pulled his main gauche from his back and set it as close to the middle as he could. Then fanned the flames with his hat to get them soaring higher. Athos fed it, and fed it. Then fed it some more. They moved until it was roaring. The smoke curling upwards through the foliage, no doubt announcing their presence like a whistle in a crowded room. No matter. They had more important things to worry about. 

Athos lay a hand on d'Artangan's good arm to pull him from his slumber. He blinked sluggishly up at his mentor, looking unimaginably young with his sweaty fringe plastered to his forehead, a look of complete trust on his face.

“d'Artangan. This is going to hurt.” 

He didn't say more. He didn't need to. A look of comprehension dawned across the lad's face, and Athos could see his jaw moving as he grit his teeth. Athos leaned across him, pulling d'Artangan's doublet towards them and placing the corner of the collar by his mouth. d'Artangan did not ask what he was doing. Merely steeled himself, taking a deep breath before biting down on the proffered leather. 

Aramis turned the knife blade in the fire, making sure both sides of the thin metal were cherry red. He was distancing himself from what he was doing, memories of the sizzle of his own flesh and the all encompassing pain flashing through his mind though he tried to quell them down. He heaved a breath before turning to d'Artangan and without so much as a word, pressed the knife blade fully against the open wound.

The noise that ripped from d'Artangan's mouth could not even be called a scream. He bucked fully from the ground, the smell of cooked flesh instantly permeating the air around them. Athos was thrown back to what felt like mere moments earlier, when they had held Tristan in much the same way. From the momentary look of horror with passed Aramis' face, it seemed Athos was not alone in that memory. 

He lay fully across the lad's chest in an attempt to stop him from injuring himself more or thrashing away from the knife and doing more harm than good. The blade was only held against the skin for three or so seconds, but for the men in the clearing it felt like a lifetime. 

Thankfully a moment later, d'Artangan flopped to the ground bonelessly with one last moan before passing out. For a long minute neither of the other Musketeers moved. Both panted, heaving breaths of cold, autumnal air through their mouths as it was abhorrent to try to breathe through their noses, with the smell of d'Artangan's singed flesh falling over them like a blanket. Finally Athos moved, pulling himself back to a kneeling position and casting a narrowed eye at their marksman. Aramis was staring off into the middle distance, the cooling knife blade still held poised in his hand until he dropped it without so much as looking to where it fell.

The clearing itself had become almost uncomfortably warm with their proximity to the flames, and sweat dripped down all their faces. Though whether it was the heat alone or the threat of fever moistening d'Artangan's brow was yet to be seen. 

Athos moved slowly to lay a hand on Aramis' shoulder, startling the man who whipped round, quick as a snake and grabbed his leader on the wrist, none too gently. Athos caught a glimpse of confusion in the depths of his eyes, until he seemed to remember where he was again, brought back to the present from a jumble of memories. His own searing flesh, the cries of Tristan writhing under his hands mingled with the screams of d'Artangan still echoing in his ears.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, immediately releasing his crushing hold. Though leaving his hand loosely on top of Athos' wrist, clearly needing the contact.

“Don't be,” Athos replied, understanding completely. The walls they had built to hold back the memories of the things they had seen and lived through sometimes cracked, and it took a moment, sometimes longer, to dam them back up. Wine being Athos' chosen mortar. 

Unfortunately for all of them there was not so much as a friendly drop to come by. 

Both of them looked down in synch to the blackened flesh now scarring the lad's shoulder. Gone was the oozing blood, replaced with twisted skin. It would scar, but he would live to admire it. 

Aramis lifted a weary arm to wipe his brow, frowning at the fire as though it was the cause of all his life's problems.

“We need to move again, don't we?” he asked, unable to keep the note of utter exhaustion from his words. 

Athos just nodded, not able to vocalise their need to be back on the road, nor trusting himself to be able to keep his own tone anything less than weary. He hauled himself back to his feet, pulling Aramis up with him. Together they smothered the already burning low fire, kicking wet leaves over it to stop any errant embers. As one they leant down to pick up the dead weight of d'Artangan. His head lolled sickeningly as they carried him, rag doll, towards the horses. 

Athos took a moment before dragging himself back into the saddle. The world was taking on a fuzzy hue at the edges now. On some level he realised he should be worried but he didn't even have the energy for that. Pulling d'Artangan up into his seat, even with the help of Aramis, proved to almost be impossible. This usually small task taking three times as long with their ruined muscles. 

Aramis staggered to his own mount, laying his forehead against her neck for a moment before pulling himself into his seat, panting. He swayed for a second, gripping the pommel tightly and shaking his head whilst blinking rapidly. He rubbed at his eyes, frowning as this obviously did nothing to clear his own hazy vision and clicked his beast forward into a trot. Athos estimated that at the pace they were clearing, they would be approaching Paris by the early hours of the morning. Treville would not even be looking to them just yet. His estimation of a three day trip meant there was fully another day before he would begin to worry at their lack of return. They would have to rely on their own waning steam to get them home. 

He kicked at the sides of his horse, jolting forward and scrambling to readjust his hold on the reins and d'Artangan, before falling into pace behind his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this out but I am back at home now and returning to normal life which includes working every hour of the day all day every day apparently.
> 
> Thank you for the feedback so far. Any comments and critiques, as always, are gratefully received.


	7. Chapter 7

Cold. Shivering. Pain. Dark.

Can't think. 'urts too much. Can't _move._ Chains rattling. Chains. _Chains._

No, no, no, no.  _ No _ !

“Quiet! You god-damned Musketeer scum. Or we'll give you something to whine about.”

Whine? Not whining. Nothing coming out. Can't 'ear nothing. Nothing, nada, nope, nope, nope.

“Fine then, you bloody well asked for it.”

Ribs. Side. Back. Ribs. Over and over. Pain. Fire. Blood. No. Aramis. Where is Aramis! Athos. d'Artangan. The whelp.  _ The whelp _ . 

Gun. Shot. Blood.  _ Blood.  _ So much blood. Oh god. 

Tired. So tired. But d'Artangan. Got to save the kid. Got to get 'im 'ome. The Garrison. 'ome. Athos. Aramis. d'Artangan. 'ome.

Durant that bastard. Should 'ave rung 'is neck. Tore 'is 'ead off. Slit 'is throat. Bastard.  _ Bastard. _

What if they're all dead? Dead, dead, dead. Like Tristan. Alone again. Alone. Cold. Tired. So fucking  _ tired. _ I can't. d'Artangan. Dead.

“Right that's it. Quit your sodding keening you bloody mountain. Shut up!”

Dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lord. My apology for such a long absense. I had a weekend away for a friend's hen party and then nine days on at work. This is literally my first chance to post anything.   
> It's a bit of a departure from the stuff I usually write but I wanted a snap shot of what Porthos was going through whilst the guys were on the run. It's also a really short snap shot but I'm planning on having the next chapter up soon to compensate for that.


	8. Chapter 8

Athos' head lolled. Then lolled again. He could feel it roving like a broken flower but there was nothing in his power any more he could possibly do to stop it. His limp hand twitched as useless fingers wove into his reins, the other clutched in the folds of d'Artangan's shirt. Sodden with blood or sweat or who knew what at this point. He blinked, casting a blurry eye at Aramis, who swayed wildly in his saddle. His own head nodding.

They'd rode as hard as they could for the afternoon. The sun had begun its early descent, bringing with it the gloom of the night once more. The trees had finally begun to thin out a few hours back, dispersing almost completely for the first time in what felt like days, leaving them on the road fully now. It finally began to feel like they might be getting closer to home.

“Nearly there d'Artangan. Nearly home.”

Athos had kept up a running commentary to the boy, although he had been unconscious for most of the trip. Coming back to them occasionally, mumbling words of nonsense and scaring years off of Athos' life. Aramis had gone from verbally checking up on him sporadically, to falling into a deep silence. The likes of which Athos had never known of him in all their years together. He understood completely. Even the mere act of parting his lips to breathe seemed to chip away at his practically empty reserves of energy.

He twitched, realising he had nodded off in his seat once again, and shook his head drunkenly, trying to make himself more aware of his surroundings. A dance he was finding himself having to repeat more and more often as they continued down the road.

Thankfully the weather at least seemed to be with them, the night being clear, though it was seasonably cold. If there had been even the barest hint of a wind Athos was not sure he would have remained seated.

Suddenly his spine stiffened. Behind him, carried by the stillness of the air, he heard the unmistakable sounds of hooves. Though thankfully it seemed to be a good way in the distance. It was a sign of how out of it Aramis was that he did not even react. Athos kicked his tired horse into a trot, bringing them in step with the marksman.

“Aramis, I think they have finally picked up the chase,” Athos said across the gap to his brother. Aramis did not so much as flinch.

“Aramis!” Athos leaned across, clapping the marksman on the arm. Nothing. It was as though he was talking to a shell.

Athos growled in frustration. It was not fair. After all they had been through. After all they had survived on this mission. To be cut down with mere hours to go until they reached Paris. He could not. Would not allow it. He gathered up his reins, slapping Aramis' horse on the rump and hoping the marksman would at least have enough about him to hold on even if he was beyond steering his mount.

They thundered along, as fast as their tuckered out horses would allow, bouncing about in their saddles. They were no longer riding, they were just hanging on for dear life as their leg muscles turned to water. All at once Athos could hear d'Avery's men whooping and calling insults from behind them, gaining on their dogged steps.

This was the end, Athos knew that much. He had always wanted to go out fighting though he knew he didn't deserve such an honourable death with the life he had led. Being chased down by a pack of hounds was as good as one such as he could ask for he supposed. His arm could not bear the weight of his sword any longer anyway, even if he had the strength to pull it from its scabbard. He wished his brothers could have had a better end though. That they would be pulled down to their deaths like this left a bitter taste in his mouth. They deserved better.

Aramis it seemed finally understood something of their predicament, his hand rested on his sword hilt though it seemed he had come to the same conclusion about his ability to draw it.

The voices were gaining on them. The insults growing louder as well as more crass as the men tasted victory. Wild lights in their eyes and practically drooling in anticipation of finally having their prey in their grasp.

With a pang, Athos thought of Porthos. Wondering if their brother still lived. Wondering if he was aware of what was happening to him or if he thought he had been abandoned by the others. The thought that they would not be able to go back to rescue him was one he could almost not bear to think about. Although perhaps d'Avery's men wouldn't look to kill them immediately. Perhaps they would drag them back for more sport and they would go to their deaths as a family.

He chanced a look over his shoulder. There were only a handful of men behind him, probably half of the ones they had left alive in the clearing. Durant was not amongst them. He had stayed back to deal with Porthos properly, Athos imagined. After all, the giant had managed to land a good few hits to Durant, no doubt wounding his pride just as much as his flesh in front of his men. He would want his proper revenge. Athos almost felt insulted that they had not even bothered to send the full contingent after their fleeing forms. No doubt they had seen their ailing bodies and realised how close to the end of their ropes they all were.

So intently focused on the men behind him, Athos did not even notice that the path ahead of them was suddenly full of figures too.

“Hold!”

At the shout, Athos visibly jumped in his saddle, tearing his gaze back to the road ahead where several men on horseback were just about discernible in the darkness. The moon was no friend this night, casting barely any light at all on the figures. There was, however, just enough to see the line of men raising what had to be pistols, creating an impenetrable wall of death ahead. He pulled his horse up fully. It stopped dead, head hanging low as it panted in the night. As done in as they were at this point. From the corner of his eye Athos saw Aramis stopping too. Fumbling with a pistol that they both knew was empty, but hopefully might hold some weight anyway with this new threat.

The men were mere yards behind them now, still shouting and war whooping. Somehow, it seemed, half their number had managed to gain ground on the Musketeers, who now found themselves surrounded. Athos pulled himself back as fully as he was able to in his seat, straightening his shoulders and setting his jaw. If this was to be his death then he would face it head on without so much as a grimace.

“Aim.”

Athos tilted his head a little higher, focusing on what few stars he could see through the clouds and with his blurry vision.

“Fire!”

A cacophony of gun shots hailed forth. Athos waited for the pain. The darkness. But there was neither. His ears rang after the report of the pistols, now joined by some other noise. The groans of dying men behind him. He looked back, utterly confused.

Lying on the ground, a mere stone's throw away, lay Durant's men. Some dead, some dying. All un-horsed. Athos turned back to the men ahead of them. What was going on.

One of them broke away from the line up, trotting forward with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Aramis must still have had his pistol trained on them then, Athos thought with some distant part of his mind.

“Easy now.”

That voice. He would know that voice, no matter where he was or how gone, with every fibre of his being. He sank in the saddle, the final vestiges of fight leaving him completely, rendering him boneless.

“Treville.”

“That's right son, it's me. Aramis, you can lower that pistol now.”

The gruff voice of his Captain enveloped him like a hug. In a moment, all the anxiety he had been feeling for his men, for the mission, abandoned him. They were safe. Finally. To his right, however, the useless pistol remained levelled at Treville's chest.

“It's spent,” was all Athos could manage. His throat hoarse with lack of use and a severe lack of water. He levelled a worried glance at the marksman. The fact that it was their brothers in arms ahead of him had apparently yet to register. But Athos could see the strain even aiming the pistol was having on Aramis' arm, as the barrel began to tremor and then shake.

“Aramis, we're ok.”

Only his word, it seemed, was enough to break through the fog settling around his brother's mind. His arm fell to the side of him with an audible thud, the pistol clattering to the floor and spooking his mount. The sudden motion of the horse was just enough to finally, finally, unseat the Spaniard. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he folded within himself before sliding to the side of the saddle and slowly to the ground with a sickening thump.

Athos' heart beat loudly at the sight. He moved to dismount. To run to his brother. To do anything to help. The second he shifted, however, his ears were filled with a thunderous rushing noise and everything faded to black.

* * *

He blinked. The first thing he was aware of was the heaviness of several blankets laying across his body, followed by the lightening bolt of pain rocketing through his head the second he dared to move it. A groan ripped from his mouth before he could even think to stifle it. He tried to move an arm to cover his still closed eyes. Press his knuckles into his temple. Anything to alleviate the ache. But the combination of the heavy fabric encasing him and the fact that he felt weak as a kitten proved to make this task impossible. Instead, he settled for pressing his head back into the cloud soft pillow and groaned once again.

“Athos? Athos can you hear me? Are you awake? Son, come on now, speak to me.”

“..Tre-...Treville?” Athos rasped. Needing to reply to that voice, his Captain's voice. Responding even to this request as though it were a command.

“That's right Athos it's me, come on now, open your eyes for me.” Treville's words were whispered in reverence to Athos' blazing headache, but even they seemed to be like a hammer to a gong. He still attempted to open his eyes though, blinking harshly and trying to focus his still blurry vision on the face which had leaned down above him.

“There we go, son. Now tell me, how are you feeling?”

“I feel...like you've just dug me out of a darkened corner of the Wren,” Athos said, wincing as the words pulled at his dry throat. He tried to keep his head as still as possible, every movement resulting in a lance of pain behind his eyes. He swallowed thickly, the pain bringing with it a stab of nausea into his empty stomach. Two days of marching on little more than a few mouthfuls of bread and dried meat had left behind the tell tale ache of hunger. Though this was the first moment he'd had to address it in lord knew how many hours. He'd been beyond feeling just how sore his head had felt too. He almost wished he was back on that horse so severe was the throb.

The horse. Back on it...

“Aramis! d'Artangan!?” Athos yelled, almost as a question.

“Easy now, the physician has looked over the three of you already.” As Treville began talking he moved from where he'd been blocking Athos' view of the others lying in beds to his left in the infirmary. He crossed the room, pouring a goblet of water and bringing it back to Athos' bedside, who almost moaned at the sight of the liquid. Treville brought it to his mouth, allowing him to take small sips. The water was better than the best vintage, cooling his irritated throat though it seemed to do nothing to slake his thirst.

“The others?” he asked, his voice somewhat back to normal.

“Had Aramis broken his rib before he fell?” Treville asked, sitting back by Athos' bedside and absent-mindedly laying a hand on his Lieutenant's shin over the covers.

“Cracked it. Gun shot.” Athos' answers were becoming more stilted as the rest of his aches and pains made themselves known, leaving him one thrumming mass of pain.

“Well he managed to break it fully with that dismount,” Treville said gravely. Athos looked to his Captain's face for the first time, noting the tight lines of worry and more than a hint of sadness around his eyes. “He's also covered in cuts bruises and that gash on his side is nasty but nothing that won't heal with time and rest.”

“Has he woken yet?” Athos said, his eyelids at half mast in an attempt to alleviate the headache.

“No but the physician assures me that it is just his bodie's way of recuperating. Same for the lad.” Treville added gravely. “He's had a stitch put into the wound on his cheek but other than that there's not a lot we can do apart from wait for him to wake up.”

Athos nodded once, stopping immediately as the pain in his head spiked, making his stomach lurch. “The arm?”

“Not a bad job under what I imagine were not the best of circumstances?” Treville asked as a hesitant question, “a story for another day perhaps. Know that the burn is healing well. The physician has prescribed a salve which is working to keep it protected. He has also left me this, for you.” At his word, Treville held up a small vial filled with a thick liquid.

“Milk of the poppy?” Athos questioned, bordering on hopefully. Though he did not want to loose what little lucidity he retained, the pain was already sapping him of his ability to think. Treville did not even begin to give him the option to refuse however, already dripping a small amount into a mouthful of water to try to dilute the bitter taste.

He proffered the goblet to Athos one more time, who grimaced as he swallowed this second drink.

“Sleep now, we shall talk for a time once you wake.”

Athos nodded, not even trying to fight his drooping eyelids any more. Safe in the knowledge that at least two of his brothers were safe, though his heart tugged painfully for the third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I can actually only apologise for the delay. I was going to have this up Saturday but apparently daring to change the name of the account holder of your internet provider means your internets break and there is no such thing as updating your Musketeer fanfiction...imagine.


	9. Chapter 9

When he next awoke it was to the sounds of the daily bustle of the Garrison. Men laughing and talking, swords clashing, the familiar clop of hooves across the cobbles. It was almost enough to send him back to sleep. His head felt like it was full of cotton, something he recognised as a side effect of the poppy. His body still ached though his muscles felt like they would actually be able to do his bidding should he ask it of them. He raised a hand experimentally to brush an errant lock of hair aside which had fallen into his eyes.   
  
Though he had slept there was still a lingering weariness throughout the entirety of his body, but compared to the fatigue he had felt towards the end of the chase it was nothing. Still, he felt he could easily fall back into an untroubled sleep without much effort on his part, something of a luxury to him.   
  
Normally a feat which took several bottles of red and a few hours of brooding, self loathing to achieve. He purposefully made to sit up, dragging his sleep addled body into a seated position on the side of the bed where it protested, though mildly. He stretched his muscles one by one. They ached sharply, in the way that over exertion often brings about. The hits he had taken in the skirmishes they had fought through were sore. The cut on his temple, re-cleaned by the physician, stung. All in all he was a sorry state and supposed he would look the part for it if his brother's were anything to go by.   
  
d'Artangan lay, too quiet and too still. His olive skin completely washed out making his dark hair look all the darker. The stitch in his cheek marred his face, the skin around the thread was a little pink an angry. Athos could not see the lad's arm and did not wish to disturb him to look at it. There seemed to be none of the normal signs of fever to the boy. No rosy cheeks nor sweaty brow. If anything he seemed to be deeply, comfortably asleep.  
  
The same couldn't be said of Aramis. The Spaniard was surrounded by twisted sheets. Some of his blankets had been thrown clean to the floor. He too was too pale, his eyes also ringed in purple. But a frown was on his head as he fought some demon in his sleep. He mumbled, his face now clean of the blood from the split lip and the gash at his brow though they still appeared to be quite sore.   
  
All at once he threw himself forward. A strangled “Porthos!” broke from him as he jolted awake.   
  
“Aramis?” Athos said alarmed. At the action, the marksman had clutched his side now obviously bound and padded, with a groan. His panting becoming stilted as the pain in his broken rib flared.  
  
Aramis looked around wildly for a moment. Still caught in the vestiges of whatever nightmare had gripped his sleep, before his eyes rested on Athos' face and he visible relaxed. Though they remained wide and the look of complete devastation did not leave his face as quickly as it usually would have. Aramis was a master of disguising his inner most thoughts with a charming smile, but being so tired and injured had left him more vulnerable than usual.  
  
“Athos,” he said with relief, carding the hand not gripping his ribs through his hair as he got his breathing under control.  
  
“Bad dream?” Athos asked pointlessly. It was obvious to anyone that Aramis had been in the midst of a nightmare. But Athos wanted to offer him the chance to talk of it. They did not pry into each other's feelings as a rule, knowing that the offer of a friendly ear was always on the table. Athos looked to gently remind him of the fact.   
  
“You were all dead.”   
  
The stark words were quiet but they packed a lot of punch behind them. No wonder he had seemed so relieved to see Athos in the flesh.  
  
“I've had that one myself. But we are here,” Athos replied in kind.  
  
“Not all of us.”   
  
Athos' breath hitched for a moment at the words. He had felt the weight of leaving Porthos behind like a hand clamping on his chest since it had happened. That hand seemed to clench a little more now.   
  
“We will get him back.”  
  
Aramis said nothing, dropping his eyes and sighing, though he nodded slowly. He glanced over to d'Artangan, swinging his legs around the side of his bed and stumbling over to the lad.  
  
“Do you think it wise to be on your feet?” Athos asked, anticipating the filthy look he was going to receive and smiling inwardly when he did.   
  
“I'm fine,” Aramis said, shuffling to d'Artangan's bedside, and lowering himself down onto the side, still clutching his ribs. He attempted to hide the grimace of pain unsuccessfully.   
  
“Looks it.”   
  
Aramis did not even deign to address this comment, even with another of his trademark mutinous looks. Instead he leant down, careful not to disturb the sleeping man in the bed, and peeled back the blanket away from the arm they had abused. It was bandaged, but Athos knew what he would be looking for. Any foul smells or telling marks on the skin surrounding the linens. He nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied.   
  
“Has he woke yet?” he asked, looking up to Athos from his seat.  
  
“No, and neither of you should have left your beds as it happens, either.” Both men jumped slightly at the sound. If Treville was surprised to catch them off guard for once, a feat which wouldn't have happened if both men had been feeling themselves, he hid it well.  
  
“Treville!” Aramis said, sounding genuinely happy for the first time in what felt like weeks.  
  
“Not that I'm not glad to see you back with us however,” he continued, nodding at the marksman.   
  
“How long have we been out?” Athos asked. If how almost refreshed he was feeling, compared to how he had felt before passing out, was anything to go by they'd likely been asleep a long time.  
  
“A day and a night,” Treville said. Nodding again at their twin frowns. “Barely a sound from either of you the whole time too.” Inwardly he had been worried but for the word of the physician who assured him it was their way of healing.   
  
“When did you reach us on the road?” Athos asked, attempting to comprehend fully how long they had been absent from the goings on of the world.  
  
“We reached you two hours outside of Paris, you damn near gave everyone a heart attack when you fell from your horse,” Treville added, looking to Aramis who lowered his eyes abashed.   
  
“How did you know to come?” Athos asked. The question had been rattling around in his mind since he had woke. By his reckoning, they had been away from the Garrison for fully two days and nights. Treville had thought to give them three days for the mission. By rights he should not have reached a point of coming to find them for a good few days hence.   
  
“Should you really be questioning my motives?” Treville teased gently, reminding Athos that as their Captain he was perfectly within his rights to do as he wanted.  
  
“No but it's never stopped us before,” Aramis piped up, with the ghost of a smirk.   
  
“Gut instinct,” Treville said, ignoring him. Really it had been a gnawing in his stomach which had bordered on painful from the moment the six of them had rode out from the Garrison. He dropped his head with a sad sigh as flashed back to seeing only three of his men returning the previous evening, proving his very instincts correct.   
  
“Well we're indebted to your gut then,” Aramis added. The smirk fading.  
  
“What happened?” Treville asked quietly, gathering his emotions back up and fastening them back tightly behind the wall of duty.   
  
Athos took a moment before launching into the story. d'Avery's refusal, the initial battle and the chase beyond it. The losses of Gerard and Tristan. At the mention of the boy, Aramis had turned his head away from the men, swamped in his own thoughts. Treville's mask of professionalism did not falter, though his jaw clenched tightly at the words.   
  
When he reached the news of their final stand and the fate of Porthos however, his face lightened dramatically.  
  
“Then he may still live!?” he asked, a heavy weight lifting from his heart. Losing three of his men had been a blow, but for one of that number to have included Porthos had been devastating to him. Now it seemed there was a small chance he could come back to them.  
  
“He does still live,” Aramis said, whipping his head around and focusing a steady gaze on his Captain. Almost boring a hole into his very soul.  
  
“This is good news indeed,” Treville said, pulling at his beard in immediate thought. “A party will be sent to retrieve him-”   
  
“Chances are they have returned to d'Avery's keep, we shall have to send more than just a party to return him to us,” Athos said. A pit had grown in his stomach at the thought that Porthos had been at the mercy of those dogs for over a day. Lord knew what they may have done to him in that time.   
  
“We?” Treville asked, raising an eyebrow. Deep down he knew there would be no way of holding these two back from coming along. Though with how awful they still looked, he would happily tie them to the bed until they were better. He did not want to risk their lives again so soon.  
  
“Try and stop us.” The coldness in Aramis' voice was enough to almost sap the sunlight from the room. There would be no keeping him away from Porthos this time.  
  
Treville met their twin gazes for a moment before nodding slowly.   
  
“We will leave at midday. Chances are by hitting this Baron in the middle of the night he won't be prepared for an assault. I will go now and speak to the King to tell him of his refusal of terms. I don't think it will be too hard to sway his hand to sending a force of men to bring him back. For what he has done this time, I'll put him in the noose myself.” Treville's eyes veritably flashed as anger surged through him. “I will send Serge in with a meal for the two of you and then you will see that you rest until we are ready to leave.”

* * *

Rest they had. For all the hours allowed to them until they finally had to pull themselves from their beds and head out to join the groups of Musketeers forming in the courtyard. Athos had intermittently heard them gathering the supplies they would need for storming the Baron's home in between rousing from a death like sleep. In truth, he wouldn't have found it much of a hardship to remain in his bed for another day at the least. A fact which surprised himself as much as it annoyed him. He felt like his body was betraying him.   
  
Usually the exhaustion he battled through with regularity at morning muster was one of the mind. Hours spent at his window pondering his life choices and his feelings for Milady in a continuous loop which would not be ignored. Drinking the entire time until he was sodden enough for sleep to finally claim him. And though his body was used to the daily grind of his life now, it was not often he had had to push himself so hard physically for such a sustained time.   
  
But he put on his boots and sheathed his sword before striding into the yard with his shoulders straight. Enough was enough and if he had to treat his body with the same contempt that he would have treated an errant servant in his other life as a Compte then so be it.  
  
Aramis was another matter entirely. He knew the marksman had managed some sleep as he had seen it with his own eyes when he had been torn from his own. But as often as he had been asleep he had also been awake. Sitting on the edge of his own bed or d'Artangan's. Pondering who knew what whilst fussing with the boys wounds.   
  
Well no, Athos could guess exactly what the man was considering. All the ways he would take d'Avery and his men apart for what they inevitably had done to Porthos, and Athos would be right along side him.   
  
He fixed his hat on his head, worrying his sword belt until it lay right before swinging a leg up and pulling himself back onto one of the Musketeer mounts. His own mount, Roger, had yet to return to the Garrison. Indeed if he and the others ever would. At least pulling himself into the saddle proved to be a much easier exercise than the last time he had done it. Especially without the added weight of d'Artangan.  
  
The lad was still in bed. He had woke briefly. Mumbling words almost lucidly before tumbling back into sleep. Enough that it lessened the worry at their hearts about his well being at least. He was young, he would heal. The only thing Athos worried about was how he would react when he awoke fully to find them gone back onto the trail to d'Avery and right back into danger. There was nothing for it but to leave him though however. There was no way they would be able to bring him along and in the state he was in he would not be able to wield so much as a pistol. So they left him to sleep with the promise from Serge to ensure he would get a good meal into the lad as often as he could, and Serge did not play around when it came to food.   
  
Athos looked across to Aramis, who had mounted his own horse with seemingly little difficulty, but whose face had turned pale at the motion. Athos knew that his ribs would be screaming at him. He also knew there was no chance they would ever get him to admit as such. Riding for a day would be agony for the man but there was no leaving him behind. That much had already been set in stone.   
  
They were a force thirty strong with Treville at the head. He had sat with Athos for a good hour of the morning as Aramis slept, going over with him exactly what they had seen when they had gone into d'Avery's home what felt like a hundred years ago. Athos had explained everything in great detail. The weaponry, the layout of the entrance, and had surmised that d'Avery's men would be vastly depleted from the seemingly endless numbers they had dealt with. In truth, it had probably been somewhere in the region of forty men to begin with. But with the deaths of Tristan and Gerard and the capture of Porthos it had felt so much stronger.   
  
That number would be lessened now, with the casualties they had sustained during the battles with the Musketeers, and the clean up of the small group which had been on their tails by Treville. Thirty armed soldiers would be more than enough to finally bring d'Avery to justice.   
  
Treville left the armoury where he had been directing the men in charge of the munitions, and walked across the yard to his own big, black mount. He leapt into the saddle, the horse prancing underneath him, obviously as eager to tear from the Garrison as he was.   
  
“We go now to bring this Baron to justice. Justice for the King. Justice for the Gerard and Tristan, and justice for Porthos!”  
  
At his words, the men roared their approval. Clearly ready to tear down d'Avery's very walls. It gladdened Athos' heart. He remembered the early days back when he kept himself firmly to himself, a young, black Musketeer stalking the Garrison. Trying desperately to fit in and not hiding the fact too well. The jeers and the contempt that followed his footsteps, and the one friendly voice breaking  out of a pit of despair. A soul broken and wounded by an unspeakable mission with a tragic end, finding comfort in smoothing the rawness of one who couldn't fit in.   
  
Athos glanced to Aramis at the thought. The Spaniard had drawn himself up in his saddle at the cheering, clearly feeling the same sense of pride that their comrades now raced to save their brother with no hesitation. Porthos had earned their loyalty completely.   
  
“For the King!” Treville cried, his horse rearing slightly as the phrase was yelled back at him from thirty mouths. He turned his mount, aiming him for the entrance to the Garrison and clattering out of the yard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I know this has taken forever to post. Time is running away from me at the moment.   
> All comments and critiques are, as usual, very welcomed.


	10. Chapter 10

“Wake up _Musketeer._ ”

Porthos jolted awake as a boot connected with the side of his leg. He blinked wildly, trying to focus on the room around him and get his bearings. The candles seemed too bright for a moment and he shook his head, hissing as a headache spiked behind his eyes. He took a moment to allow the pain to settle, before raising his gaze and glaring into Durant's smiling face. He grinned to himself grimly at the sight. Durant was a mess. A mask of bruises and cuts all inflicted by his own two hands. The man walked with a limp towards him, rage blazing off him in waves at Porthos' expression. It seemed Porthos had taken a chunk out of his pride as well as his body.

“You finding something funny here scum?” he snarled, kicking out once again.

“I just reckon you should thank me, for improving your face,” Porthos answered, not so much as wincing at the pain which sparked through his leg at the abuse. In truth he was a complete mess. He glanced around the room, a view he had come to expect as much as resent.

He had been dragged from Durant's broken form back in the clearing. His heart almost breaking as well as soaring with joy as his brothers had tore from the battle. They at least had managed to get away. He had thought to destroy Durant with his bare hands. Rip his life from him for what he had done to his friends. To Tristan. But many hands had pulled him back and a vicious punch had put an end to that intention, sending him deep down into unconsciousness.

The next time he had woken he had found himself chained to a tree in a rushed camp, his entire body aching as though he had been trampled by several horses. His heart had been as heavy as his head. Still was to be honest. He had fought against the chains like an animal. Visions of ships and people packed tightly together flashing through his mind. He hadn't fully gained his senses back just then. Confusion was his only friend until he had been sent back to the darkness once again by one of Durant's men.

Now every time he opened his eyes he was greeted by garishly ornate decoration and the almost continuous flickering of candlelight. d'Avery had had him installed as a grotesque ornament in the corner of the modest dining room they had talked with him in originally. A trophy to what he claimed was winning the war against the Musketeers who had dared dirty his courtyard. Porthos had been chained, none too gently, to one of the four large pillars which cornered the room. Across from which was the overtly ornamental chair the Baron favoured at the head of the lavish table. The man himself lounged, a seemingly endless glass of wine perched in a slack hand. He sipped at it continuously with a smug grin plastered across his face at the raucous celebration of his men sitting around the table itself and also in various pockets of the room.

Personally Porthos did not understand what they had to celebrate. The force of men under d'Avery's hand had lost almost fully one third of its number, and the Baron had to know that some sort of retribution was heading his way. Or maybe not. He was not a military man. Perhaps he genuinely thought that by seeing off a group of six men he had won his freedom. Fool.

Porthos knew in his heart that his friends would be coming for him. Of that he had no doubt. A pang of worry shot through him though at the thought of them. None of them had looked their best before the skirmish he had been captured in, and the whelp. Well the whelp had taken a bullet for sure. Lord knew how badly the boy had been injured. But he felt, that with the bond they had forged that somehow, if something truly awful had happened to any of the three of them he would know. Their welfare was a constant niggle in his mind. He fidgeted as it thrummed almost uncomfortably as he focused on it now.

If he was thankful of one thing during his incarceration, it was the opportunity of rest. Though d'Avery's men jeered and cursed and even physically abused him, even they had to sleep, and he had managed to all but catch up on the hours that had been deprived to him over their mad dash through the forest. If there was one thing Porthos could do it was sleep in any situation. Years at the Court had seen to that. Not many had the luxury of a soft place to lie their head of a night, and he had had his fair share of practise at sleeping upright. Something he was putting to good use. His muscles, though bruised and aching from his rough mistreatment, had finally shaken off the leaden, heavy feeling he had come to almost expect when he tried to move.

Porthos blinked, looking round the room again. The sight turned his stomach. What the wretched inhabitants of the court wouldn't give for the coin which would cover the cost of a gilded spoon from this moron's table. A luxury like that could easily provide the means to feed a small family for a week, and d'Avery had a banquet's worth of them; and knives, and forks. Plates, furniture, hangings. The entire room was dripping money although d'Avery had quite obviously depleted his coffers decking out the place. His modestly sized mansion could only be worth so much. He was overcompensating to the highest degree.

“You do know they're still going to come for you right?”

He couldn't help himself. He had tired of hearing of the way his friends and comrades had been murdered and hurt and hunted. Durant and his men telling the stories over and over again as they threw ale down their necks and over themselves. d'Avery encouraging the tales as if he were living vicariously through them. Porthos knew a man like him would never dare to dirty his silken gloves with such matters.

“Pray tell dog, who is it who is going to be, as you so eloquently put it, 'coming for me'?”

Porthos wanted nothing more than to head butt the smile from d'Avery's face. He felt as though he was channelling Aramis himself as his mouth opened seemingly of its own accord.

“The Musketeers. The Red Guard. 'ell at this point I reckon the Cardinal 'imself wouldn't be past mounting 'is 'orse,” Porthos said, a mirthless grin of his own gracing his face.

“The Red Guard? The Musketeers? You can only deliver threats using the names of those we have already defeated? My dear, you shall have to work harder than that to attempt to scare me.” At d'Avery's words, jeers broke out aimed at Porthos. In response to the clamour and the various tankards and objects thrown his way, Porthos did not even flinch. His grin becoming unnerving now.

“Oh you may 'ave managed to best six of us. But we managed to take down a lot of your men first. Imagine when ten. Twenty. Even thirty of the boys in blue turn up. You'd best find yourself a sword _Baron,_ just so your lifeless corpse manages to look a little less cowardly than your face does now.”

d'Avery's cheeks coloured at the words. His grin turning to a grimace of rage, and not a little fear if Porthos was reading the man's face right. Good. To hell with him.

“Durant. I believe it's time you trained this dog to stop snarling at his master,” he bit out without breaking eye contact with the stricken Musketeer.

“You ain't my _master_ ,” Porthos raged, pulling at the chains as pure anger flooded his body. He belonged to no man.

“But of course I am. That is exactly how property works,” d'Avery said smirking, clearly loving the effect he was having on Porthos. “I took you from your previous owners so now by all the laws of the land you _belong_ to me.”

“They are my brothers,” Porthos yelled, kicking out at Durant who was approaching him slowly, still hesitant to come within arm's reach of the giant even though he was quite obviously incapacitated.

“Oh I'm sure that's exactly what they wanted you to think as they let you potter about your little bolt hole no doubt clearing up after the horses and the _actual_ Musketeers,” d'Avery continued, eyes glittering with his amusement, “why they even gave you your very own uniform bless your little heart. You can dress yourself in all the finery of the world my dear. It will never cover the stink of what someone like you is born for. You will of course let such ideas leave your head now you are mine however. I think we'll start you off slowly. You're one of the strong ones. You'll do well working in my kitchens to start with. The women down there struggle to lift those heavy potato sacks themselves. Then once you've proved yourself I might let you wait on my very table; an honour I'm sure you'll agree although that scar is an ugly thing. We'll not be able to have you show yourself during formal occasions. Then, once you're all used up this side of France, I'll sell you to someone who has use for such muscles and off you'll trot to a life of sunshine and hard labour.”

Porthos tried to ignore the words, to let them wash over him. He grinned at d'Avery, the grin becoming taut as his monologue continued, turning to a grimace and finally screwing up into a mask of rage as he snarled, impotently, pulling at the chains until the abrasions where they looped around his biceps tore and blood trickled freely down his arms. d'Avery just laughed at the anger aimed his way, before suddenly seeming to find the sounds tearing from Porthos distasteful.

Porthos for his part, managed to bring his screaming anger under control. He gazed at the ground, chest heaving, before slowly looking back up at the Baron.

“This dog is going to rip your throat out.”

The words were so cold, so menacing, that they wiped the smirk from d'Avery's face as they washed over him before he finally gathered himself up and plastered on the bravado once again.

“Durant.”

At his word, the man closed into Porthos, unable to continue his hesitation for fear of losing face in front of his troops. He slapped the club in his hand once before stepping forward and raining blows down onto the crumpled Musketeer at his feet.

* * *

 

A groan ripped from his mouth as he dragged himself back to consciousness who knew how many hours later. If he thought he hurt before he was mistaken. Every muscle screamed bloody murder at him as he tried to pull himself back into a sitting position. He turned and spat a globule of blood, trying to get the copper tang from out of his mouth. There was enough about him to make sure he aimed for it to land on one of d'Avery's fine silken rugs as opposed to one of the wooden floor boards. He attempted a grin to himself as it splattered true to his aim, but all he could manage was a grimace.

It took a moment for him to register, now the room was beginning to darken as the night lay upon them, that his vision was not as good as it could have been. It took another moment for him to realise it was because his left eye had swollen completely shut after this latest abuse from Durant. What little fight was left in him called for his blood as well as the Baron's.

He panted as he pushed himself backwards, trying to ease at least some of the aches his abused body was protesting. Sitting chained to the column was in and of itself putting a strain one several of his muscles. Still it beat being strung up by his arms or forced into a cramped space he supposed.

Once the roar of pain had calmed down to a dull yell, he attempted a look at his surroundings, what little he could discern with his one good eye. It seemed the party had finally died down. The men either in a drink induced stupor or getting that way. All except the Baron. Porthos jolted a little as his eye finally rested on him.

d'Avery sat still in his ridiculous chair. So still he could almost be sleeping himself. But his eyes bored into Porthos'. A look the Musketeer could not place upon his face. Part fear for certain. Part question.

“What?”

d'Avery said nothing for a long moment, then he shuffled minutely in his seat. Still staring at Porthos. Still contemplating.

“So much contempt from one such as yourself.”

“What exactly do you mean by that then?” Porthos grunted, knowing exactly what d'Avery was getting at. He was no stranger to the looks and the attitude that stuck to him like the colour of his skin. Once upon a time it would have bothered him but these days, he was proud of the man he was and what was more, he was not scared of allowing that pride to show. Too long he had spent in the shadows, shame thickening the air around him for something that was beyond his very control. No one could pick how they would look when they came into the world. A man could only choose how he would live his life and dragging himself from the dirt of the Court into Musketeer blue proved how determined he was to live the very best life he could.

“You should learn your place,” d'Avery sneered though he still sat stock still. Still staring at Porthos as though his very eyes would give him whatever answers he seemed to seek.

“Oh I have,” Porthos began, smirking at the trumped up Baron, “my place is with my brothers. By their side making sure the King is safe from people like you.” At this he paused, narrowing his eyes a little as if looking for his own answers. “Not that you're that much of a threat as it 'appens.”

“Must I remind you that twice now the King's dogs have barked at my door and twice I have sent them home with their tails between their legs,” the Baron began, fury flashing in his eyes as Porthos laughed out loud to this.

“Aye you might 'ave sent a few of us 'ome but wait till the rest of the 'pack' arrives,” Porthos answered, his smirk morphing into an unsettling grin. The Baron shuffled in his seat. His eyes flashing with a glint of fear he barely got under control.

“You think they will bother coming for you?” he sneered, attempting and failing to keep the note of contempt in his voice.

“Well if I wasn't so sure they'd be coming for me I'd be damn certain they're coming for you,” Porthos said, his grin growing wider.

“If they so much as dare set a boot upon my courtyard...” the Baron began.

“Yeah yeah, you'll send them 'ome blah blah blah. Listen. They're going to come here, muskets blazing, and that pretty, fancy head of yours is going to look lovely with a noose for a necklace,” Porthos barked, all hint of a smile gone now and blood tinged spittle flying from his mouth at the force of his shouting. One or two of the drunken men stirred from their various positions around the room but did not wake. Not that Porthos cared. He would happily throttle the lot of them so furious was his spike of rage.

“Insolent slave!”

“Poncey arse'ole!”

Both men stopped dead quiet for a moment, the Baron's chest heaving, hairs escaping his ridiculously coiffed wig and flying wild. He'd thrown himself to his feet at his words, now he seemed to crumble back into himself as he attempted to keep some dignity whilst dropping back into his seat. Porthos had tensed at the man's movement. Not knowing for certain just what he was capable of. He'd yet to show any kind of inclination to violence brought about by his own hand. To Porthos he was little more than a decorated, pompous arse, to whom the very idea of dirtying his hands with something as beneath him as fighting would be abhorrent. It seemed his conclusion was the right one though there was always that twinge of uncertainty that the man might be more of a sleeping lion. Something which wouldn't react well to being poked with a stick. Porthos was beyond caring though at this point. He was ready to smack him with a tree.

He had just opened his mouth to tell d'Avery exactly what it was he thought of him, when all of a sudden there was a tremendous cacophony of noise coming from the hallway. After the initial shock of the commotion wore off, however, the battle roars and clinking metal were like music to Porthos' ears and a huge, this time genuine, grin broke out across his face. Turning to the Baron, who had frozen in his chair with terror in his eyes, he caught his attention.

“They're here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So finally, the return of Porthos. I haven't ever really spent any time just writing from Porthos' point of view and I actually found I really enjoyed it. He's a much more complex character than I really gave him credit for. That and he's a bamf.
> 
> Anyways, I'm furiously writing the next chapter currently. So hopefully it'll be up soon!
> 
> As always, all comments and critiques are welcomed.


	11. Chapter 11

They'd spent almost no time at all hiding in the grounds of d'Avery's house watching the darkened doorways looking to scout out how many of the Baron's men were guarding the mansion. If Treville had his own way they would have staked out the area for at least a little while longer. But he would be lying to himself if he claimed that he was any less eager to get into the building and liberate Porthos than the two men who were beside him, fairly vibrating with the need to get inside.

They'd stayed long enough to see that d'Avery had bulked up the security detail. Clearly he was expecting company. Though from what they could see, the men hadn't taken their duties too seriously. More than one had a pistol in one hand, but a bottle in the other, and if the other bottles littering the ground around them were anything to go by then the guards would be very much on the wrong side of sober, something they would obviously use to their advantage.

Treville had had them dismount the horses a couple of miles back from the grounds so that they could approach as silently as thirty armed men could in the darkness. They'd hidden the beasts in the thick trees in small groups to keep noise to a minimum. Athos had barely been able to suppress a shudder as they had made the journey back into the woods, memories of blood and pursuit accosting him as soon as the smell of leaf mulch hit his nose. He pushed them to the back of mind with the shaky ease of someone who had spent many of the later years of his life putting thoughts he did not wish to deal with into various boxes.

He knew Aramis was doing much the same, although the marksman had grown more silent and focused the closer they got to their destination. Though how much of that could be attributed to the pain and discomfort he was no doubt feeling after such a long ride Athos did not know. Glancing across his Captain, Athos saw the steel glint of the marksman's eyes in the darkness. He was staring unblinking towards the house. Athos could not begin to guess what was running through his head though he knew exactly what Aramis' end game was seeing as it was tied to his own. They had a brother to rescue.

Treville had given them specific instructions to limit blood shed as much as was possible. They were to blitz attack and subdue. With as few lives lost as they could manage. The last thing the Captain wanted was to have to put any more Musketeers into the ground and bursting in guns blazing was a sure fire way of that potentially becoming a reality. Athos had made eye contact for a long moment with Aramis after that order. He knew that Aramis was a true soldier. A man of France. He was also impetuous, impulsive and loved his brothers fiercely and Athos needed to check that he was on the same page as his Captain. The marksman had met his gaze head on for a few long seconds, passion burning in his eyes, before nodding once stiltedly. He would rein in his desire for revenge at Treville's command. Though Gerard, Tristan, d'Artangan and Porthos flashed through Athos' mind in quick succession, he took Aramis at his word. It was a pledge not made lightly.

The Musketeers had positioned themselves in the tree line surrounding the mansion and were waiting on Treville to lead the charge, two of his best men at his side.

“Seven men between us and the Baron's front door,” Treville whispered.

“I almost feel bad for them,” Athos replied dryly. From the corner of his eyes he could see subtle movements in through the bushes speaking of his comrades shuffling in the darkness. The guards had no idea what they were about to be facing.

“Let's put them out of their misery shall we?” Treville asked, pulling his rapier from its sheath and preparing to spring from the trees. The movement was mimicked by the others up and down in the leaves as they took their cue from him.

After a pregnant pause in which the regiment seemed to take a collective breath, Treville burst forward, a battle cry renting the air. The cry was joined moments later by the voices of the others, Athos and Aramis calling the loudest.

The men ahead of them visibly quaked, freezing in their tracks. Completely disorientated by the sudden bombardment of noise cracking the night's silence. A couple of them instinctively raised their pistols, firing it at the wall of blue coming their way but thankfully most shots went wide, so disorientated were the guards. The few which did hit were glancing blows, doing little more than slowing down their targets for a moment before the adrenaline of the coming battle kicked in and they pushed forward. Shouting all the louder.

A short scuffle and a few cuts and bruises later and the guards were subdued. Most unconscious. A few had surrendered outright after seeing the efficiency with which their fellow men were taken down. All were in the process of being clasped into irons. Bound for trials questioning their very loyalty to the King. They would all be either in jail or the noose not long after being dragged back to Paris for certain.

Athos looked around wildly for a moment before relaxing fractionally as his eyes finally lay upon the form of Aramis who was panting harshly and shaking his hand in the air. He looked up almost sheepishly as he caught sight of Athos looking first to him and then the man on the ground. Unconscious and with a vicious looking bruise already blossoming across one cheek. It seemed the marksman was taking the no kill rule to its very limits. Athos looked back up, his eyes meeting his brothers as he arched a brow, perfectly capturing his thoughts at Aramis' over zealous actions.

Aramis did little but shrug, wincing as his deep breaths aggravated his already screaming rib. Athos shook his head, turning and sprinting with the rest of the force who had taken off in front of the house aiming for the lavish entrance to the courtyard and stables in Treville's footsteps. The battle cry had been taken up again as they launched themselves at the large doorway which Athos knew lead into the entrance hall of the Baron's mansion. Another involuntary memory flashed at the back of his eyes as the main force crashed through the door. This time of Gerard choking on his own blood as he fought uselessly to fill his lungs with his dying breath. Athos shook his head, coming to a halt as he did so, trying to shake off the feelings which came along with the memory. The guilt and foreboding. As he did so he caught sight of two grubby faces peering at him from behind a barrel which had been accidentally overturned in the charge and which had rolled to a stop just in front of the stables themselves.

He squinted in the darkness, the faces melting backwards into the blackness a little as they realised they had been rumbled. Athos suddenly realised who they belonged to, and he walked towards them slowly, the hand not holding his sword raised in a placating manner as he approached.

“Hey there, hey,” he said quietly, not wanting to to startle the boys any more than they already had been by the happenings of the evening. For boys they were. Athos had recognised the wide, terrified eyes as belonging to the lad he had spoken to a few days earlier as they had torn out from the courtyard on the backs of their horses.

“I told you I would return,” was all he said, by way of revealing himself to the boy. Seeing how recognition suddenly snapped across his face. Athos realised that after what they had been through he was probably looking a little less polished to how he had on their first visit. A wide smile broke out across the lad's face. His friend seemed utterly confused by the exchange as he looked from him to Athos and back again.

“Wait here for our return. I will see you reunited to your families.” He turned, heading into the house on the heels of his comrades. His heart tugging slightly as he did so. He remembered there being three boys tending to the horses originally. He hoped that the third was elsewhere and just missing from the stables. Anything else didn't bear thinking about.

He sprinted to the back of the force of men tearing through the hallway aiming for the dining room Athos had told Treville was the heart of the operation, catching up to the last few Musketeers just as they launched themselves through the double doors leading into there. He almost wished he could have been inside beside the Baron at that moment, sure that they had made quite the entrance. Especially when the hand carved, heavy doors fairly bounced off the walls, echoing around the high ceilinged room.

They stood, at the foot of the table. Thirty sneering, sweating, some bleeding, Musketeers facing the diminishing form of d'Avery. His already aristocratically white face paling even further under their gaze. Treville had pulled them up short with a hand in the air, seeing no armed force to meet them as they had entered the building. Merely drunk men splayed around the room, blinking sluggishly at their appearance. Some had made half hearted movements to pick up their weapons. They had stopped immediately, quailing under the narrowed eyes of the Musketeer Captain.

Athos combed the room wildly. Not caring one moment for the Baron and his so called army. As far as he was concerned they were contained. No there was one very specific person he was attempting to find in the sea of faces in front of him. From the corner of his eye he saw Aramis take an eager half step forward before he was stopped in his tracks by an arm across his chest. Anger burned in his eyes as he shot a look at Treville, who turned to the marksman and shook his head once.

Athos looked to where Aramis had originally been heading before being held back by the Captain and felt his entire body sag in relief only to stiffen again as a thrill of fear washed through him.

Porthos. Beat to hell and looking rough around the edges but it was their Porthos. With a huge grin as his eyes roved over them stopping on Athos' and Aramis' faces for a few seconds longer than the rest. And standing not five feet behind him, hiding behind one of the oversized pillars which stood in the corners of the room and concealed, Athos realised, from Aramis' view, was Durant. Holding a very lethal looking dagger in his hand. That's why Treville had stopped Aramis from moving forward. Durant was threatening them with Porthos' life. Something Treville was obviously not willing to barter with.

The Baron had half turned in his seat, looking to see what had caught the attention of the regiment before turning back to Treville. A smug smile gracing his face as he realised the ace up his sleeve.

“Yes?” he said. The confidence in his tone stirred his men from where they were dotted around the room. They looked from Treville to the Baron, seeing the men staring each other down. They cautiously began to move. One after another. Coming to stand behind d'Avery. Not quite pulling their weapons from their belts but making sure to stand in a way which made them obvious.

“This can only end one way d'Avery,” Treville began. Athos could practically hear the whirling of the cogs inside his Captain's head as he assessed the room and the possible outcomes to this new situation. Knowing that anything which included Porthos getting hurt, or worse killed, would not be acceptable. From Treville's other side it was almost as though heat was radiating from Aramis, who stood, thankfully silently, fuming. Still not aware of the threat to Porthos' life.

“I assume you mean with your pets hauling me to Paris to face our glorious _King_ and pay for my sins do you Musketeer? I think not.” d'Avery's words were haughty now. Bolstered by the men who surrounded him.

“Oh come on now. I told you they would come and drag your sorry arse back to the Chatelet. Can we get this over with already? I'm starving.”

Athos barely held back a smile at Porthos' words. A few of the Musketeers near him huffed quiet laughs.

“Quiet dog, I have already told you what is expected of you when you are in my company,” d'Avery barked. Athos bristled. He did not like the way this man dared to speak to their friend. Treville held up an arm across Aramis' chest once again. Attempting to prevent him from launching himself across the room to throttle the Baron with his bare hands.

“I am trying to prevent as much bloodshed as is able d'Avery. Look around you. You are outnumbered. Your men are sodden and your castle breached. Come quietly and allow these boy's mother's to keep their sons a while longer. For if you do not our retribution will be swift and you will be taken back in irons and placed before the King on your knees.” Treville's words were sharp and to the point. He was offering d'Avery one last chance to be able to walk out of his mansion on his own terms. Athos knew the answer before it came. His muscles already priming for the coming battle.

“No I don't think so. I'm rather more comfortable here at the moment, and I have only just opened this fine vintage in front of me. Seems a shame to waste it,” d'Avery said, toasting to them with his ever present glass of wine. He cocked his head towards the pillar where Porthos was chained.“Durant?”

At this one word order, Durant finally stepped out from where he was hiding. He kept most of his body behind the pillar, forcing Porthos to a standing position by wrapping a hand about his throat and squeezing as he attempted to drag at his mammoth body. Porthos had to stand or face being strangled where he sat, so stand he did. Chains rattling. A snarl ripping from him as he finally realised his comrade's hesitation at dragging d'Avery from his throne by his wig. Durant snaked a hand about the pillar, the dagger now resting at the point where Porthos' neck met his shoulders, forcing the man's head back slightly.

“What was that about getting onto your knees?” Durant asked evilly, a maniacal glint in his eye. He wanted nothing more than to be the one to send Porthos to meet his maker after all the trouble he had put them through and the blows to his pride he had taken.

Quicker than any one of them could follow. Quicker than the Captain could stop him. Quicker than the possibility could even occur to Athos' brain, Aramis had leapt into action. He whipped his pistol out of its belt and fired it across the room without even seeming to aim. His eyes narrow and flashing hate at the man who had dared to threaten their Porthos.

The shot hit home. Raking a path along almost the entirety of the arm which was looping around the pillar. Durant let out a wail, pulling his injured limb back and disappearing into a corner cradling it. He nicked Porthos' neck as he went, leaving a fresh trail of crimson in his wake. Porthos grimaced, his good eye closing in pain for a moment before looking wildly around the room. Aramis' amazing shot had signalled the start of an all out brawl. d'Avery's men had pulled their pistols out in unison with the Musketeers. Shots were fired, thankfully most going wide but men on both sides were struck down, never to get up again. The air was ringing with the aftermath of the booming guns, peppered with the choking death rattles of men on the ground and the sharp hiss of rapiers being pulled from their sheaths.

Athos brandished his own sword. Stepping forward to meet the downward thrust of a man aiming for his Captain. He met the blow, using every muscle in his shoulders to push the man backwards, unsettling his feet and sending him to the floor. Athos stepped forward, throwing his weight behind a downward punch that wouldn't see the guard getting up again any time soon. He was determined to leave as many of these men alive as he could for them to see proper justice.

All around him were small skirmishes, the ring of clashing metal thick in the air. He turned to see the Captain embroiled in his own battle against what appeared to be an unskilled opponent. It took him almost no time at all to remove the sword from the boy's hand, for a boy he was. Barely into adulthood. He dropped his weapon with a look of terror. His chin thrust upwards in defiance as he awaited the killing blow.

“Keep out of this and wait until it is over,” Treville said, motioning with his head to one of the darkened corners. The lad looked before scuttling across the room away from the main battle. He would not trouble them any longer.

Athos turned to see what Aramis was up to, deflecting another sword strike and pushing the would be assailant back into a scrum of Musketeers where he was taken down promptly and subdued. He did not have time for that. He had to get to his brothers.

Aramis was embroiled in a furious blow for blow fight with one of the older members of d'Avery's men, and therefore a little more experienced. But whilst Aramis was already deadly, the one thing which would forever make him more dangerous was a threat to his family. He sidestepped a killing blow and turned, throwing his sword to his left hand and pulling his spent pistol from his belt, tossing it into the air so he held it by the barrel. He brought the gun down hard across his opponent's temple. The man's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crashed to the ground in a heap. Athos felt a twinge of worry as he saw Aramis take an unsteady step back, clutching the hand holding the pistol to his broken rib as he fought to get his breathing under control.

Athos made to move across the room, his way slowed by fallen men and dodging battles. Soon though he was a few feet away from where Aramis had dropped to his knees besides Porthos who had sunk back to the ground after being released. Athos smiled to himself as he saw them clasp hands, Porthos pulling Aramis down into a chain hampered hug. Eliciting a hiss from the Spaniard as his injuries were jostled.

“You sound like hell,” Porthos said, worriedly loosening his grip on the hug though he still held his arms around the man. Unwilling to give up the first friendly human contact he had received in a few days so soon.

“Yeah? Well you _look_ like shit,” Aramis huffed back. Laughing and squeezing his arms as hard as he was able.

“Athos!” Porthos exclaimed, as Athos stepped into the field of vision of the eye that wasn't swollen shut.

Athos said nothing, but nodded at his friend. The relief shining through his usually carefully controlled emotions. His heart felt as though it would burst out of his chest although a niggle tugged in the back of his mind for their absent brother. Lying at home in his sick bed. It seemed it would be a little while yet before their family would be properly reunited.

“Come, let us get you out of these chains shall we? The things you do to get out of doing any work Porthos. Honestly it's unseemly,” Aramis said, heading behind the pillar to where the chain was bunched up. Luckily there was no lock. Rather the heavy chain had just been looped over and around itself outside of Porthos' reach, keeping him secured. Aramis diligently worked to release his friend.

“'ow is the whelp?” Porthos asked, worry colouring his voice as he looked to Athos.

“At home recovering,” Athos replied, smiling as Porthos huffed out a sigh of relief. “He's not going to be happy that we left him behind.”

“Wait...'e's still unconscious then?” Porthos said. The frown apparent on half of his face.

“He was as we left but we were not long at home,” Athos replied. Kicking himself for his lack of tact. The last thing he wanted was an injured Porthos distracted by worry. He had a road to recovery of his own to walk down yet.

“That would account for why you two are looking less than your best then?” Porthos said. Cocking his head.

“Well it was either stay at home sleeping or trek halfway back across France to come save your sorry arse,” Aramis said, his voice tight with pain though the joy was very much genuine. He finished untangling the chains, pulling himself up using the pillar to lean against. Athos stepped forward, leaning down and grasping Porthos by the forearm, pulling him to his feet where he too used the pillar for support until he found his legs.

“A sorry bunch the lot of us,” Athos said, smiling in exasperation but also willing their business with the Baron to be over so that they may begin the trek home and he could see his brothers, and in truth himself, into their sickbeds. Porthos was clearly in pain. Favouring just about every muscle in his body. Not a patch of his skin seemed to be unmarred, the abrasions on his arms looking raw and bloody and his eye so puffy Athos could almost feel it.

Whatever retort Aramis had opened his mouth to utter was forever lost, however, as the forgotten form of Durant suddenly reappeared. Screaming blue murder with his dagger in the air. He seemed to be making for Aramis, who had his back to the man and was closest of the three. He did not make it. Porthos stepped in, quicker than a man his size should have been able, and pushed the Spaniard unceremoniously to the ground. Durant came at him. The whites of his eyes seeming huge as he threw himself at Porthos bodily, his expression completely crazed. The arm which had received the bullet was coated in glistening blood but in his rage he seemed to be ignoring it. Athos did not have the time to move as the men clashed. Porthos catching the wrist of the arm brandishing the weapon and holding it aloft with what seemed like a little trouble. His other hand resting firmly on Durant's shoulder, holding him fast.

Their eyes met and after a moment or so, the fight seemed to drain from Durant as he noted the complete steadfastness of Porthos' might.

“For Tristan.”

At his words, Porthos squeezed Durant's wrist until he dropped the dagger before pulling back his ham like fist and letting loose straight at the man's jaw. Durant staggered backwards, already unconscious as he fell. He didn't have the chance to try to slow his descent and fell bonelessly backwards, his head cracking against the marble pillar with a crunch. He flopped to the ground, blood pooling around his head. His eyes opened but unseeing.

Porthos stood for a moment, panting. Staring down at the man which had caused them so much trouble. So much pain. It didn't seem enough that he was dead. It never did.

Athos slowly moved over to where Aramis was shakily trying to gain his feet, having been thrown to the ground by Porthos as he stepped in to save his life. He leaned down, hooking an arm under Aramis' armpit and attempted to pull him up. Aramis let out a gargled groan as he did so however, so Athos worriedly guided him, half hunched still, into one of d'Avery's ornate dining chairs before lowering him down.

“I don't know why they bother spending so much on these stupid bloody chairs,” Aramis spluttered, his face pale as he panted though the pain. His rib having been jostled one too many times that day. “They're never sodding comfortable.”

Athos clapped him on the shoulder, huffing a laugh before turning to collect Porthos who was still staring at their defeated adversary, sorting through something in his mind.

“He killed Tristan. Damn near killed the lot of us. Now he's just...gone.”

“Yet the anger and the pain still remains,” Athos said in agreement. Moving to place his arm around his brother's shoulders in a show of support. They stood for a moment, before Athos gently lead him towards their ailing marksman and away from the sight of pooling blood.

“I cannot thank you enough my friend,” Aramis began, holding a hand out to Porthos who grasped it in response.

“You know you don't need to,” Porthos replied. Smiling down at Aramis before all but falling into a chair beside him, a gruff, pained exhale as he did so. “Bleeding 'eck these chairs aren't comfortable.”

He looked mildly perplexed as the other two chuckled at his words before leaning back into the seat grimacing. “I think I may be done now.”

“I think I agree with you,” Aramis said.

Athos looked at the pair of them. Pride unexpectedly welling for his brothers. Broken and hurting and still fully prepared to carry on with their duty if they had to. Porthos a mask of blood. Aramis pale and shaky and attempting that if he pretended hard enough, his bones might magically knit themselves back together. His own body was talking to him too. Telling him of its displeasure that he was not tucked up in bed resting his wounds better. He turned on his heel, dutifully ignoring it once more.

He would keep the others out of whatever was left to mop up of d'Avery's men as much as he was able. They'd earned their rest. Evidently the Captain thought the same, turning from the skirmish to level an eye at Athos, who stood, ramrod straight for a moment. Almost ready to argue that he was absolutely bloody fine thank you very much. Right up until the point Treville cocked an eyebrow at him.

Aramis hooted with laughter as Athos turned, plopping down into his own decorative chair without so much as looking at the marksman.

“See, now. That's what 'the eyebrow' feels like,” Porthos said with a nudge before joining Aramis in laughter.

Athos allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up at their mirth. In truth, he would have given a lot more to have the two of them by his side even if it did mean being the butt of all of their jokes forever.

Athos looked around the room. Treville had turned back to where his men were cleaning up the last of d'Avery's. Most of which has lost heart after seeing so many of their comrades taken down and then more so with the death of Durant. Unfortunately a few Musketeers had lost their lives, Treville walked to where one of their brothers was kneeling beside a friend, holding his hand as he breathed his last. It could have been a lot worse.

From the corner of his eye Athos saw Aramis clap Porthos on the shoulder before hauling himself to his feet. Shuffling across the room, he clasped the golden necklace about his neck as he began murmuring over the dead and dying. Signing in the air as he did so and kneeling down to offer what comfort he could. All around the room the injured were being helped by their brothers. Musketeers and traitors alike.

d'Avery had suffered more losses, although with the Musketeers pulling their punches at Treville's word many would be walking away with their lives. Well...limping. Speaking of the Baron, he was on his knees. His elegant hands framed by a heavy set of irons and two Musketeers standing by his side as a guard. Judging by the sneers on their faces, they were barely containing the urge to send him to meet his maker also. Although they would never waiver from their Captain's word.

Seeing that everything was under control, Treville walked towards the Baron, slowly lowering himself down until he was eye level with the man.

“You could have prevented all this.”

“I would take a dagger to all their throats myself if I could,” the Baron sneered, though his expression told another story in the face of his bravado. It was utterly white and his eyes were wide with terror.

“Make ready the Baron's carriage. He has a date with the King of France,” Treville said to a couple of Musketeers standing to attention at his side. They nodded, smirking at d'Avery before heading to his stables to prepare his coach.

“Baron if you'd like to follow my men,” Treville then added, flicking his eyes his Musketeers flanking d'Avery. They bent down, each hooking an arm under his armpit and dragging him to his feet as it seemed his legs would not co-operate.

“I will see you all hang for this!” he called, his voice cracking as he struggled in the men's hold. Fear in every word.

“You first,” Treville muttered under his breath before turning to his boys. A smile breaking out across his face as he finally had chance to speak to Porthos for the first time in what felt like a decade.

“You look like shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apolgies for the lateness of this chapter. Life got hectic and I have had no time to myself to carry on writing. But rest assured, I have now completed this story. I will have it edited and posted by the end of this week.  
> As always, all comments and critiques are greatly appreciated.


	12. Chapter 12

It took them a while to take stock of the wounded and prepare the dead. The three Musketeers who had lost their lives were wrapped into their cloaks and placed aside. Treville had already sought the cart that would take them home to rest for eternity beside their brothers. He ran his hand through his hair at the thought of having to contact their families. A task he found difficult when it was just one of his men. Never mind the number they had lost in pursuit of the Baron. His heart was in ribbons.

Athos had sat with his brothers. Taking a precious moment to appreciate that they were very much still with him. Aramis had sank back into his chair after offering what comfort he could through prayer. Porthos was already half slumped in his, the joy of seeing his family easing somewhat and leaving behind it nothing but pain. Treville had approached them, to make sure they were still all in one piece as much as anything.

Porthos had sat back and allowed the careful check of Aramis' limited medical knowledge. Though he was prepared with a curse should the Spaniard fall into his old mother hen habits too soon.

“Nothing broken from what I can see although your face is a bit of a worry,” Aramis had huffed, palpitating the swollen area being careful not to cause any more discomfort.

“Oh god, it's my eye isn't it,” Porthos had said in a rush. Thoughts turning immediately to whether he would be able to perform his duties with only one.

“Nah I wouldn't worry about that,” Aramis had replied, the twinkle firmly back into his own eye. “What I mean to say is if I'd had a face like yours I'd have always concerned.”

“Oh you're a bloody comedian you are,” Porthos had grumbled as Aramis laughed so hard he winced.

“Serves you right,” Athos admonished. Truthfully relieved to see the lethal edge of Aramis firmly back under control with the return of their friend. “Don't think you get out of your own examination either.”

“But neither of you know what you're doing,” Aramis whined, batting at Athos' hands as he started pulling at his doublet in an effort to check on his ribs.

“I didn't do too badly patching you up on the road,” Athos replied, looking pointedly at Aramis until the marksman sighed and began removing his own leathers. “You're still alive aren't you?"

“Barely,” Aramis sulked. Lifting his shirt and exposing his chest. The wound itself was healthy enough. The skin around it a spectacular mottle of bruising however. Athos tugged the bandages which had loosened slightly after the hours of abuse thrown at them. There was really nothing for it but for them all to rest. Even Aramis who usually fought being confined to his mattress like the devil himself was looking like he wouldn't battle the order this time around.

Allowing himself a proper moment to take stock of how he was really feeling, Athos couldn't say that he actually would have blamed him.

Treville looked about the room. There was no use rushing to leave until the morning at the earliest. If only to allow Athos, Porthos and Aramis as much rest as was possible until they were back onto the road. He knew they would never admit it but they were close to dead on their feet the lot of them, and there was really no reason to rush the inevitable ride home to Paris. Other than to get them to the infirmary that much quicker.

There were still a few other Musketeers to be seen to after the skirmish. Mostly cuts and bruises and the occasional bullet graze luckily. He himself had caught a pommel to the temple, what little blood it had produced still dried to his skin, although he had waved off the soldier who came to tend to it citing that there were plenty more worse off than he. He would have quite happily forgotten about the headache as well but it had lodged itself firmly behind his eyes and apparently would not be shifted without a good night's sleep. Something he would not be having for a good few days yet until the business with d'Avery was finally done and dusted. 

He gave the order for the men to find themselves somewhere to sleep in the mansion. Not too much of a problem seeing that there were in fact several rooms which had clearly not had proper occupants in them for a while.

Rather than the men sleeping in separate rooms all over the house, however, they chose to drag what blankets and cushions they could down into the dining room, making a corner where they could all camp in. A good, solid strategy to fend off any possibility of an attack. Although deep down they knew that wasn't really on the cards. If the regiment chose to reaffirm the fact that they were alive and together by keeping to one room then Treville was not going to stop them.

The men hunkered down for a few hours sleep. A rotational guard set up for the time they would have to rest. The baron's men were placed in one corner, their hands behind their backs but a stack of pillows and blankets for them just the same. A few of them were remarkably young. Pulled into a crowd disenchanted with the King probably without realising what they were getting themselves involved with. Athos shook his head. The poor fools. With the lost lives of Red Guard and Musketeers alike there was nothing for it now but a trial. And the King was notoriously harsh against traitors to the crown.

Athos stood long enough to see his brothers settle down before grabbing a couple of blankets and heading into the courtyard. There were a few Musketeers outside too, guarding the coach which now doubled as a temporary prison for d'Avery. He had been unceremoniously installed in it; sounds suspiciously like whimpering emitted from inside. Athos nodded to the men before turning and heading for the stables.

“Hello?” he called out quietly. Not wanting to scare the two boys he knew to be hiding in the darkness. He stepped carefully, patting the nose of an inquisitive horse who butted at his shoulder, inspecting the bundle of blankets for a carrot or perhaps some other treat. Athos made his way to the last stable, which stood empty but was still lain with straw. He poked his head around the corner, his heart tugging unexpectedly at the sight of the lads, clasping onto each other and dead asleep. Huddled in the corner against the chill of the night and with little more than the scraps of clothing they were in and hay to keep them warm. Carefully so as not to disturb them, he shuffled inside. Laying the thick blankets over the two of them. He would speak to them in the morning. In the meantime, he would go join his brothers for a rest.

* * *

Athos leaned back into his saddle. Taking in the sight of Paris coming towards them with a warmth spreading in his chest. He had seldom been so happy to be almost home, partially because it would bring them the promise of rest and a warm meal, having lasted on dried foods and saddle provisions once again for the last few days. Mostly because it would finally see their small family reunited at last.

He looked to his brothers. Both tired and pained but beaming. Porthos' bruises looking even more nasty in the fading evening light. Aramis still too pale for his olive tones but both grinning as though they had won the jackpot.

The regiment had left not long after dawn. Spending enough time to load the wagon with their fallen brothers and dig shallow graves for d'Avery's dead. Limping and tired, the Musketeers mounted their horses. Athos holding the reins of one of the stable horses as Porthos loaded the two boys into its saddle. Turned out neither of the lads had a family to speak of. Athos made a promise to them and to himself that he would see them right in Paris. There were plenty of stables or blacksmiths which could always do with a good pair of hands. The boy's smiles were like a balm to all of the Musketeer's hearts. Athos was sure they'd never had their hair ruffled so much in their lives.

The men had eaten a soldier's breakfast as they went. Dried meats and fruits pulled from saddlebags. d'Avery had turned up his nose at the offerings. Not so much as speaking one word but staring dead ahead until the door had once again been closed on his ornate coach. The men they had chained were also loaded into the remaining cart. Quiet and subdued though they ate what was offered to them.

The journey home had been uneventful, although Athos once again marvelled at how easily the miles fell away by horseback when one travelled by the road instead of slugging a path through the under brush. There had been cheerful banter back and forth although for the most part there was quiet contemplation as the regiment keenly felt the presence of the silent cart following them, draped in Musketeer blue. This was not a mission to be celebrated.

Treville had pulled Athos quietly aside at one point early that morning to speak of the possibility of retrieving Tristan's body from where they had let it lay. To bring the lad home to rest properly with his fallen brothers. Athos' heart had broken a little at the query, both men knowing deep down that it would not be possible. Looking around at their wounded, it was clear they had no time to tarry in order to see them home and into their beds as soon as was physically possible. This time they would have to honour the living.

“We wrapped him fully into his cloak and placed him deep away from prying eyes,” Athos had only said in reply. Looking fully into his Captain's eyes though they gleamed suspiciously in the morning light. There was no shame in tears shed for the fallen. Treville had nodded at the reply. Clearing his throat.

“We shall place a sword for him with the rest regardless.”

It would be a monument for friends and family to visit and an honour to the lad's memory. They would not have his body but they would forever remember his spirit.

They finally reached the Garrison by the early evening. Their horses footsore and whickering at the sight of their stables. A third of the horses in the company had been borrowed from the King's own stables which held extra beasts for both the Musketeers and the Red Guard. Neither group having the facilities to house enough horses for the whole troop. They were sent back to the Palace with fresh riders to be rubbed down and stabled. Their work done for now.

In their wake followed the ornate carriage containing its subdued aristocratic package, and the rickety old cart with its band of prisoners. All destined for the Chatelet.

Athos dismounted in an ungraceful heap, rubbing a hand across his face as he looked towards the infirmary. He wordlessly helped Aramis from his mount. The man really struggling now, his eyes at half mast as he breathed hard through his nose, clearly focusing on not passing out where he stood. Athos led him towards the hospital wing, knowing that there was an inherent need for all of them to clap eyes on their youngest. But also knowing there was no way the men would be sleeping alone in their rooms after this ordeal. Not without knowing that they were all safe and as well as they could be.

He looked over his shoulder. Hearing Porthos grunt and smiling to himself as he saw Treville supporting the man and following in their wake. The giant was limping now, sweat on his brow. Athos knew that what they all needed was a long, hot bath to clean away the blood and battle sweat which clung to their bodies. But it would have to wait until tomorrow. Now was for sleeping. Now was for family.

They broke through the door quietly so as not to disturb their youngest should he be resting. They needn't have bothered. They were barely into the room before twin forms were hurling themselves at them. Disorientated for a moment, Athos' eyes finally adjusted to the low level of candlelight enough to see it was d'Artagnan who had thrown himself at his mentor, and Constance who currently had her arms wrapped around Aramis' chest. Supporting him as much as giving him a hug. She sobbed a little as she laughed. Her relief palpable. Spending a day trading leftover fabrics at the market, she had come home to news that Porthos had fallen and the rest were in the infirmary. No proper information as to how badly they had been injured. She'd rushed across Paris to the Garrison in time to find out that a regiment had been deployed, Athos and Aramis a part of it, and to find d'Artagnan still unconscious in his sickbed. She hadn't left his side since, Bonacieux be damned.

He'd awoken a few hours later, confused but mostly in one piece. His arm burning but uninfected. His body tired but almost pleasantly so compared to how he had felt, cradled by Athos on the back of a horse. He'd been beside himself when the news had been broken to him of his brothers' whereabouts, the physician threatening him with sedatives if he did not calm himself. Constance had been a pleasant distraction. A master at hiding her own true emotions in front of her husband, she had concealed the burning fear in the pit of her stomach and put on a brave face for d'Artagnan. Now though tears ran freely down her face as she smiled at Athos and Porthos whilst hauling Aramis across the room and gently depositing him back onto the bed he had taken only a day or so previous.

She aimed a clumsy kiss at his forehead before turning and throwing herself at Porthos, carefully wrapping her arms around him as she took stock of his bruises with a little gasp. Finally it was Athos' turn, and she wordlessly squeezed him tight as if proving to herself they were actually back with them and not gone forever. He smiled, placing a gentle hand on top of her head as he pulled the other around her back, reciprocating the hug. She looked at them all, laughing again though a couple of perfect tears rolled down her face.

d'Artagnan had shuffled back to his bed where he now sat, beaming around at them all though worry creased the corner of his eyes as he looked at them properly for the first time. Their band of walking wounded. The Garrison physician began busily bustling around them, tutting his displeasure and paying no heed to Aramis attempting to wave him away.

“Water. Lots of it. As hot as you can make it,” he called to no one in particular, though Constance was on her feet in a moment, dragging the heavy, cast iron bucket and hanging it over the fire in the corner of the room. Athos for his part made as if to help her but his finely trembling legs finally gave out on him, and he sank back onto his own bed. His eyes heavily lidded as he fought the urge to sleep until he had seen his men tended to.

Treville had much the same idea, moving across the room to lay a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, as happy to see him back in the land of the living as the rest of them.

“As much as I would like to stay I must go and speak with the King,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. “I trust you are in good hands for the moment, however, you _will_ all be in bed by the time I return,” he added. Sounding almost as if he was scolding a room full of boys as opposed to his soldiers. He didn't care though. If he had to order the stubborn bastards to rest before they would do it then so be it.

“How could you leave me behind like that!” d'Artagnan suddenly blurted once the Captain had left. The outburst went completely ignored the physician, who appeared to have finished with Aramis after fastening bandages around his ribs with the sort of gusto women put into lacing their corsets at court. He left the marksman, pale and shaking, before moving to Porthos. Water bowl at hand which he used to begin cleaning the blood and dirt from the man's many wounds. Constance followed in his wake, gently helping Aramis to remove his boots before pushing him firmly back into the mattress and covering him with a blanket. Aramis grunted in pleasure, wriggling further into the soft cushionings until he was nothing but a pair of dark eyes and a mop of tangled hair.

“What would you have had us do? Strap you across a horse?” the Spaniard croaked. The wit of the words somewhat muffled from underneath the fabric.

“You could have waited,” d'Artagnan replied mutinously. It couldn't have been that long after they had left that he had returned to the world. Although he knew in his heart of hearts he would have been no use to them in the state he was in. Still in actually. He needed sleep as much as the rest of them. Still the thought of them all being in danger without him by their side had been too much to bear.

“Time was unfortunately of the essence,” Athos replied. Smoothing over their youngest's feelings with his words.

“I know,” d'Artagnan replied with a small huff although a smile broke out on his face as he looked to Porthos again, who hissed as the physician unceremoniously scrubbed at the abrasions on his arms. “I'm glad to see you back.”

“I'm glad to be back whelp,” Porthos replied, frowning with his good eye at the oblivious doctor. The man moved around Porthos, cleaning him up none too gently before seeming to nod to himself in appreciation. He piled together the bloodied bandages and linens, throwing them into the rough wood bowl of now lukewarm water before gathering up his things.

“Rest. The lot of you. That's the only medicine you will be needing. Good day.” At his abrupt words he turned on his heel, striding across the room to where his remaining Musketeer patients had shuffled in through the door. Looks of trepidation on their faces as they had seen the rough ministration of his medical knowledge and knew they were about to suffer the same fate.

“Still won't fix your face,” Aramis called from under the blankets. Porthos threw his pillow in the general direction of the marksman. Purposefully missing actually hitting him for fear of causing any more pain. “Or your aim apparently...”

“Boys,” Constance huffed though her smile was still lighting up the room. She pottered over to Porthos, evidently planning on giving him the same treatment she had to Aramis as she fussed at his bed ready to put him into it. Retrieving the discarded pillow as she went. “Come on then. In you get. Doctor's orders.”

Porthos complied without too much complaint. His good eye blinking slowly as exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave once again.

Athos for his part was listing to one side. His body calling for him to finally lay out properly on the bed. But he fought internally like a tiger. He refused to succumb to sleep until the others were fully under, his own needs be damned. At least they would have been had Constance not stepped quietly up to him and pushed him finally to the mattress with a feather soft touch.

He needn't have worried. His last thoughts before darkness sank over him were of the comforting snuffles of his companion's snores and the softness of the pillow he lay down on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very nearly at the end now. Only an epilogue to go.   
> Many thanks to those of you who have been following and reading my story, and many more to those who took the time to comment. 
> 
> As always, all comments and critiques are gratefully received.


	13. Epilogue

Athos smiled to himself as he sat, nursing a flagon of wine and watching his brothers as they shuffled around the training yard, both attempting to gain the upper hand in the duel they were fighting, and both managing to look about thirty years older than their ages whilst doing so.

Boredom had driven them all out into the chilly sunshine a day earlier. Treville had ordered them to be taken from the duty line up for a fortnight but it had barely gotten to the fourth day before their mass break out in search of fresh air and a little freedom, Aramis and Porthos attempting to convince anyone who would listen that they were fighting fit and ready to go. Ignoring the very obvious fact that hauling themselves from their beds and into the yard alone had left them both panting.

It had been whilst they had lounged around in the various positions they had managed to reach that morning in the Garrison yard, that the news had reached them of Louis' decision to see d'Avery hanged for his crimes against the Kingdom. A few of his more staunch supporters would be following him to the noose, although the King would no doubt allow d'Avery the courtesy of a more private execution as befitted his tarnished station. His men, though, would be left to the mercy of the rabble. It seemed the Queen had managed to speak to Louis' more merciful side as the rest of the so called traitors were to be given a milder sentence of life in various cells around the city. Perhaps not how they would choose to spend the rest of their days, but a lesser of the two evils to be sure. There was even the small chance of retribution or pardon should the men, and in some cases boys, repent themselves completely. A very small chance.

Athos half expected to feel some sort of elation at the news that d'Avery was to be given exactly what was coming to him. But his own words echoed back to him in his ears. The anger and the pain still remained though d'Avery would not. It seemed the rest of the Musketeers felt much the same as the news had dropped. The yard had grown silent and the very air itself feeling numb for a moment. Aramis had signed the cross in the air before kissing his necklace, his action almost waking up their comrades from their stupor and off they went. Everyone continuing with their daily business.

As for the four of them, they continued to look a sorry bunch. Bruises were beginning to fade, aside from Porthos' eye which was still spectacularly purple now the swelling had gone down. Cuts were beginning to knit together but they still painted a rough picture. Although the three days almost solid bed rest had worked wonders on the lot of them. Constance had been a constant companion, only leaving of an evening to tend to her husband though she would not hear of staying home during the day. Even when he released his most pouty of pouts.

d'Artagnan had beamed in her daily presence, though even she had now gone back to her duties. Still stopping by of an afternoon to chat to them all or perhaps to bring them a sweet treat. It had been Aramis' goading Porthos about his inevitable gain of bulk if he 'continued to insist on spending the day on his rump whilst throwing pastries down his throat' which had resulted in this pathetic attempt at a duel. Thinly veiled as a chance to stretch their lethargic muscles and take some much needed exercise. Despite Athos' protesting that neither of them was ready to even lift a blade, let alone wave it around their heads like monkeys, they had done exactly that. And now he sat smugly drinking his wine whilst he watched their dwindling reserves of energy dripping away as they stiffly moved around each other, both half heartedly attempting to gain the upper hand.

d'Artagnan shuffled towards the bench, dropping himself down next to his mentor with a huff and taking a huge bite of another of Constance's never ending supply of sweets.

“Reckon either of them will back down?” he asked with a grin at Athos.

“Put it this way, I am under strict orders from Treville to rest, and I have decided that includes not dragging half dead nitwits out of the dust and back to their beds should they collapse.”

At Athos' monotone, d'Artagnan laughed aloud causing Porthos to look over in his direction. Aramis took this as his opportunity to launch his final attack...which mostly consisted of a mistimed shove in Porthos' direction resulting in the pair of them overbalancing and plopping into an ungainly heap onto their backsides in perfect synch. The twin looks of complete confusion were enough to send any of their comrades in the area into roaring laughter.

Both had the decency to look chagrined before Porthos heavily dragged himself to his feet, holding out a helping hand to Aramis, the pair of them joining in the mirth.

They looped an arm about each other's shoulders before making their way to where their brothers still looked on from the relative safety of the bench.

“Have you finished proving precisely no point to anyone yet or are you going to continue until one of you passes out again?” Athos droned. His eyebrow raising to the perfect point.

“Yes! What did I tell you?” Aramis blurted out suddenly with an air punch. Clapping Porthos on the shoulder repeatedly before holding out his hand expectantly. Porthos grumbled to himself, digging deep into one of his pockets before pulling out a coin and flipping it into the Spaniard's outstretched hand.

“...Do I even want to know?” Athos said at their antics. Knowing that the answer would be no before they'd even opened their mouths again.

“Just a little wager..” Porthos said, somewhat sheepishly.

“As to..?”

“As to whether you'd dare use 'the eyebrow' again after Treville used it so perfectly on you,” Aramis fairly sang as he mockingly blew onto the coin before shining it on his sleeve.

“Porthos had a theory yours had broken. Aramis disagreed,” d'Artagnan chimed in unhelpfully.

“I am surrounded by idiots,” Athos said standing from the table with a long suffering eye roll as they made their way back to their sick beds.

“Remind me to collect from the Captain as well, won't you?” Aramis trilled as he all but skipped back into the open door of the infirmary and past his laughing brothers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Another story fully complete finally. I have taken far too long to get this finished but I did not anticipate my apparent complete lack of personal time to write when I wanted to write. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment. You're genuinely the motivation that gets these stories done.
> 
> Here's to the muse shooting something my way sometime soon!


End file.
